


The Art Of Seduction: Changing the Game

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Art Of Seduction [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It took John nearly half an hour to get at least some of his wits back and he felt some sympathy for the daze that Sherlock's conquests always seemed to have. 'And now I'm one of them,' he thought, but he didn't have the energy in him at that moment to regret it. No doubt that would come later.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Seduction: Changing the Game

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Unhealthy attitudes towards sex and an over-reliance on Wikipedia.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sherlock's opinions of women and heterosexuality are not mine. John's opinions on new-Doctor Who and David Tennant are not mine.

The Art Of Seduction: Changing The Game

 

Sex with Sherlock was like being caught up in a whirlwind of sensation. Every move, every touch was geared solely towards John's pleasure, pulling an intensity of feeling out of him that he'd had no idea he could feel. His shirt disappeared while he was still trying to get his head around what was happening, almost all his attention concentrated on Sherlock's mouth as they moved to John's bed.

He did his best to get Sherlock's shirt off in return, but it was hard to coordinate enough to undo buttons when Sherlock was leaning in as close as he could without putting any pressure on John's chest and running his tongue along the line of his jugular.

“I told you that we'd be good together,” he murmured right into John's ear. “I'm going to prove it. I'm going to turn you on until you can't remember your own name, until the only thing is me and the things that I'm doing to you.”

If John had thought Sherlock's voice was sexy before, that was nothing to how it was now. Deep and hushed with a rough edge to it that spoke of Sherlock's own lust, it was enough to make John suck in a sudden breath as his arousal spiked.

“Jesus,” he said and Sherlock gave him a wicked grin and bent back to his neck, mouthing down to where it met his shoulder. He paused there to suck for a moment and John just clung on to Sherlock's shirt and tipped his head back to allow him better access.

“I want to put my mouth everywhere,” said Sherlock against his skin, sending vibrations through it that John could feel tingling across his nerve endings. “I want to taste every part of you. Do you want that, John? Do you want to feel my tongue over every inch of your skin?”

“Jesus, yes,” said John, wondering how Sherlock had managed to get him to this state already. He was so turned on he could barely speak; he couldn't do much more than lie back and let Sherlock do whatever he liked.

Sherlock looked as if all his Christmases were coming at once. John was familiar with the expression, although not from this angle – usually when he saw it, it meant Sherlock had come up with a crazy experiment, or found some new bit of equipment that he was going to obsess over for a week or two. _I'm not even going to have his attention for a week,_ thought John. _One night is all I'm getting._ He couldn't really feel the sting of that though, not while Sherlock was pressing close to him, lifting up John's left arm so that he could suck on his fingers, then start to trail his way up John's arm, pausing to suck at the pulse point of his wrist. John wasn't sure anyone had ever shown such attention to his arm before, and it was shockingly arousing. He let out a moan as Sherlock ran his tongue along the inside of his elbow, tracing over his veins.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. “Like that. Just like that, John.”

“Sherlock,” he heard himself say as Sherlock moved on up to John's neck, and then down to his chest.

He was careful around John's injuries, more careful than he needed to be, but John couldn't find the words to tell him so, not when Sherlock was taking him apart so precisely and thoroughly that there was nothing but need and pleasure flooding through his every cell. He lavished attention on John as if he were the only person in the world, hands and lips knowing exactly how to pull the best reaction from him.

“Perfect,” he said as he hovered over John's stomach, running his tongue along the faint lines of John's muscles. “You're perfect, John.” John ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, tracing his fingers over Sherlock's face and tracing over his lips, feeling the soft give of them. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the tips of his fingers, the returned his attention to John's stomach, working his way over it as if it wasn't verging on flabby these days, even with all the dancing they did.

“Your skin,” said Sherlock, pulling back to look. “Christ, John, how is your skin so lovely?”

John let out a choked laugh, not sure how to respond to that with anything but denials. Even if he hadn't been scarred, he was still getting old, and his skin reflected that.

“Your mouth is amazing,” he found himself saying instead, apparently unable to prevent the main thought in his head from coming out. His hand reached out for it again, unable to let it go without touching him for longer than a few seconds.

Sherlock smirked as John ran his thumb over his lower lip. “So I've been told,” he said.

John tugged at Sherlock's shirt again, finally able to get a thought together enough to realise Sherlock was still fully clothed. “Let me see,” he said.

“You've already seen,” said Sherlock, but he obligingly sat back on his heels to take it off.

John had seen Sherlock semi- or completely naked far too many times – he wasn't exactly a modest man – but having his body revealed just for John to look at and touch was very different to catching an eyeful as Sherlock wandered back to his room after a shower, or walking in on him and some bloke in flagrante. John reached out for Sherlock's shoulder, grimacing as stretching for it pulled at the wound on his arm. If he was only going to get one chance at this, at Sherlock, then why the hell did it have to be when he was impaired? He ignored the thought that because of the damage done to his shoulder in Afghanistan, he'd been impaired since before he'd met Sherlock. Now was not the time for self-pity.

Sherlock bent forward again to catch John's mouth with his, giving John ease of access to run his hands over his shoulders and back, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin under his hands. Jesus, and he thought _John's_ skin was perfect.

“I want to suck your cock,” said Sherlock between brain-melting kisses. “You'll let me, won't you? I want to have you in my mouth.”

John couldn't manage much more than a breathless groan at that, and Sherlock smiled at him. “This is going to be like nothing you've ever experienced,” he promised, his hands already working at John's flies.

John barely noticed his trousers coming off because Sherlock moved down to press his mouth to John's stomach again as he pulled them away. _Orally fixated,_ remembered a distant part of John's brain as Sherlock bit at his hipbones and sucked at a point on John's thigh that he hadn't realised would be so sensitive. But, then, he apparently hadn't known a lot of things about his body that Sherlock was now taking advantage of. As his mouth moved closer to John's cock, occasionally lingering to run his tongue across John's skin, John began to wonder if he was going to survive the night. Sherlock hadn't even touched his erection yet, and already John could barely breathe for the lust running through his body.

When Sherlock finally did take John in his mouth, John groaned at the amazing wet heat of it. He felt Sherlock smile around his cock then suck hard, the pressure on every inch of John's skin precisely controlled to be so exactly what felt most incredible that for a moment John thought he was going to have a stroke, and everything that wasn't surging pleasure and indescribable want disappeared.

Sherlock knew every trick John had ever encountered, and a whole bunch that he had never even imagined. He could do things that John wasn't sure were physically possible, and every suck, every press of his tongue was perfectly timed to build on top of each other, heading towards a climax.

He was dimly aware that he was making pained-sounding noises, his head tipped back and his hands clenched in the sheets, unable to focus enough to even form words. Even the stab of pain from his arm and the ache in his chest as he clenched every muscle and pulled at his healing injuries barely even registered as Sherlock hummed around John's cock, tongue fluttering, and pulled him in even deeper, swallowing around him.

John was going to come. There was no way he could stop it, his orgasm was barrelling towards him, and it was all he could do to force his hand to let go of the sheets and cling to Sherlock's shoulder instead as a warning.

“Sherlock,” he forced out and then, abruptly, Sherlock pulled away. John let out a cry of disappointment and frustration that he couldn't keep in as all that amazing sensation ceased, cutting off his orgasm before it could begin.

Sherlock licked at his lips in a way that almost made John whimper, then slowly slid up John's body. He was close enough for John to feel him there without ever actually touching, managing to both keep pressure off John's wounds and make his skin itch with the need to be pressed against Sherlock.

“Not yet,” he whispered right next to John's ear. “I want you to fuck me.”

Oh, there was no way John was going to survive this. His chest was heaving for air despite the pain of it – but then, between the alcohol and the endorphins, John could barely feel it. “Fucking Christ,” he said, once he could remember how to speak. “You're going to kill me.”

Sherlock's grin grew wider. “La petite mort,” he said, and speaking French in that voice was just completely unfair when John already felt as if he'd had a religious experience or been struck by lightning or something equally dramatic. He wasn't sure how he was going to get through fucking Sherlock without losing significant parts of his brain along the way. Well, it was a sacrifice he was more than prepared to make.

“If you want me to fuck you, you'll have to take these off,” he said, tucking his fingers into Sherlock's waistband and pulling at it.

“Observant as ever, John,” said Sherlock. He climbed off the bed and stood for a moment, his hands on his flies and his eyes fixed darkly on John's before he began to slowly unbutton them. He was swaying his hips slightly, and John had a sudden, vivid flash of Sherlock stripping on stage in a club. The image prompted a line of thought – Sherlock researched everything, and then practised it until he was an expert. Put that together with the shimmy Sherlock was doing, and-

“You've made a stripper give you lessons.”

The seductive look was wiped off Sherlock's face by surprise for a moment, then he blinked and laughed. “I forgot you know my methods,” he said. “And I didn't, actually. I merely observed several professionals and collected data on what was most effective, then applied it to myself.” He finished undoing his trousers, then slid them gracefully off. A moment later his underwear followed, and he stepped free of them, nothing but pale skin and long, lean muscles.

John's fingers itched to touch him and he sat up, reaching out for Sherlock's hips. _I wanted to undress him,_ he realised as he pulled him in, bending his head to press his lips to Sherlock's chest. He'd spent years thinking about what it would be like to sleep with Sherlock and what he would do, and he only had this one night to do it all. He'd never get to undress him now.

Sherlock ran his hands through John's hair, then bent and kissed him, long and slow and flowing with seductive promise. “I presume you have lube close by. Now would be an exceptionally good time to get it. Then all you have to do is lie back and let me take you apart – I've been thinking about you fucking me for so long, and I know just how I'm going to blow your mind.”

 _I bet I've been thinking about it for longer,_ thought John. He kept Sherlock in close for the length of another kiss, smoothing his hands over his back and down to cup around his arse. He thought about the faces of men Sherlock had been with, remembering how they always looked as if Sherlock was a force of nature that had just happened to them. _I don't want to lie back while he takes me apart,_ he thought. _I want to happen to him as well._

It wasn't the most coherent thought ever – he had a naked Sherlock in his hands and pressed against him, he was lucky he could think at all – but it was enough to spur him to action. He reached out for his bedside drawer and pulled out his lube and a condom.

Sherlock immediately grabbed the lube from him and inspected the label. “Acceptable,” he said, “if a trifle generic.”

John took it back from him. “Well, we can't all afford to have specialist stuff flown in from Sweden,” he said. “Lie down.”

“Norway, actually,” said Sherlock, “if you mean the one I think you mean.”

John laughed. “I was making it up. I should have known you'd actually have some.” He kissed Sherlock again, suffused with affection. The look Sherlock gave him when he pulled away was a trifle bewildered, and John wondered how often there was laughter during his usual sexual experiences. Not very often, he guessed, if he'd never been with someone he knew.

The thought made John feel sorry for him for a moment, and he pulled him back in for another kiss. It already felt familiar and natural to kiss Sherlock so easily, which was probably going to cause problems tomorrow, but John couldn't care at all about tomorrow right now. He tugged on Sherlock's hips again. “Come on, lie down.”

Sherlock resisted. “This will be easier on your chest if you remain lying and I straddle you.”

“Damn my chest,” said John with feeling. He knew exactly what he wanted to do to Sherlock, and it didn't involve lying back and thinking of England. He wanted to get him spread out on his bed so that he could properly appreciate that he had him here. That was well worth the risk of straining his injuries.

“On the bed,” he said. He thought about just how far he could push his injuries, and then added, “On your hands and knees.”

Sherlock obeyed, sliding into position with slow, graceful movements, then turned to John with a raised eyebrow and a come-hither look. “Like this?” he asked.

The inside of John's mouth was dry as he let himself feast on the sight in front of him. “Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, that's good. Stay like that.”

“You're bossier than I'd hypothesised,” said Sherlock, sounding approving.

“Yeah, well, I know you,” said John, running his hand over the long line of Sherlock's back, tracing over his spine. “If I'm not firm, you'll just ignore me.” He had his hands on Sherlock's arse now, that fucking perfect arse that he had been fantasising about for nearly five years. Jesus, the things he wanted to do to it.

Sherlock laughed. “Oh, you seem to be more than firm enough for me,” he said in a suggestive voice.

John had walked in to that one, but he bent his head to bite at Sherlock's buttock in retribution anyway. Sherlock made a breathy, surprised noise, and John wondered if he'd hypothesised that or not.

 _Let's see how much more I can surprise him,_ he thought, and ran his mouth up to the curve of Sherlock's back, sliding his hands over Sherlock's sides as he did so. He licked over Sherlock's smooth, pale skin, stopping to gently bite or suck a red mark whenever the words that were flowing through him threatened to come out. Words like perfect and beautiful, and far more dangerous ones like want and need and love.

Sherlock was responsive beneath him, making more of those little noises that made John want to do this forever just to be able to keep hearing them, and occasionally arching his back into the touch of John's hands.

“Come on, John,” he said. “Stop teasing.”

“I'm not teasing,” said John and then carefully, deliberately, ran his tongue down the full length of Sherlock's arse crack, then back up to press gently at his hole.

“Oh,” said Sherlock in a gasp. “Yes, that's always acceptable.”

John snorted to himself, then let his tongue go to work properly, pulling Sherlock's arse cheeks apart to give himself better access. He'd always loved doing this, even if it was generally considered a bit dirty – or maybe that was why he loved it, something just this side of dirty, something that he could devote himself to, losing himself in pulling reactions from his partner and thrilling in the knowledge that it was him they were panting for.

Sherlock reacted with a string of breathless swear words, pushing back against John's mouth as if he'd never get enough of it. Every rough word and long breath pulsed through John, pushing his own arousal higher until he wondered if he'd actually make it to fucking Sherlock, or if he'd come just from this, from the taste under his tongue and the skin under his hands and knowing that he was the one taking Sherlock apart for once.

His chest did hurt from the angle he was bent at, but it barely registered underneath everything else he was feeling as he licked inside Sherlock, feeling the tightness of his muscles around the flutter of his tongue, the way Sherlock was twitching as if he couldn't control himself, and God, didn't John want to make him lose all control, destroy any chance of him treating this like any other casual hook-up?

“John,” growled Sherlock, and John bent closer to press in as far as he could, then winced as it pulled too much on his chest. He wasn't going to be able to stay like this for much longer, however much he wanted to keep at it all night.

He pulled away and Sherlock made a whimpering sound of loss, then took a rough, calming breath. “You better be intending to fuck me soon,” he said.

John laughed, reaching for the lube. “If you insist,” he said. He hesitated, then admitted to himself that he was going to have to compromise with his injuries. “You'll have to turn over,” he said.

Sherlock did, flopping over on his back and giving John a searching look. He wasn't focused on his face, though, he was looking at his chest. John scowled. “Don't look at me like I'm fragile,” he said.

“I'm not,” said Sherlock, sitting up and putting his arms around John. “I just don't like you being hurt.” He pressed a kiss to John's forehead. It was gentle and affectionate, completely at odds with the press of his erection against John's stomach and the way John could feel his pulse thrumming for more.

“This would be easier if I weren't,” agreed John. He ran his hands down Sherlock's back, and Sherlock obligingly shifted to his knees so that John's hands could continue down to his backside and press a finger where his tongue had just been, feeling how open Sherlock was now, just waiting for John's cock.

Sherlock dragged in a breath and pressed down against John's finger. “Come on,” he said. “Enough waiting.”

“You realise that saying that just makes me want to drag this out longer?” said John as he opened the lube and slicked some over his fingers.

“Always so contrary,” said Sherlock, then lost himself for a moment as John pressed two fingers inside him, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. John leant forward to press his mouth against Sherlock's neck as he opened him up, and Sherlock made a noise deep in his chest that rumbled through John.

“Christ,” gasped John, and suddenly waiting was the very last thing on his mind. He reached out for the last place he'd seen the condom, only to find Sherlock already had it in his hands. He had it open and rolled down over John's cock before John could take another breath, then moved forward to straddle John's lap properly.

“Hold steady,” he said in a voice so torn apart by lust that John wasn't sure he'd have recognised it. _I'm not going to be able to listen to him speaking without hearing this now,_ he thought, and then Sherlock was slowly sinking down on him, driving all attempts at thought from his mind.

Sherlock was unbelievably tight and hot, taking John in one long, steady movement that made John clutch helplessly at his hips. He bit at his lower lip as he moved, eyes shutting as he pressed down, but when he had settled all the way, when John was so far inside him that he thought he'd never get free, he opened his eyes and gave John a wide, gleeful smile. There was nothing of his usual cynicism and reserve in his face, just sheer delight, and John couldn't stop himself from pulling him close and kissing him, wanting to take that expression inside himself somehow, so that he would always have it with him that he'd made Sherlock look like that.

“John,” said Sherlock, and then started to move, swaying his hips almost as if he was dancing as he moved up and down on John's cock. It was all John could do just to clutch at his hips and ride it out, keep breathing through the waves of pleasure that Sherlock was sending through him with every move he made.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off John's face for a second, and John found the distant part of his brain that was still capable of complex thought noticing that Sherlock wasn't treating this like a series of mechanical actions, or as an experiment where reactions had to be logged, categorised, and filed away to be analysed later, like John had half-expected him to. He seemed to be as genuinely carried away by it as John was, so responsive that John couldn't help wondering if this meant more to him as well.

 _That's how he does it,_ he thought. _How he blows everyone away. He makes it feels as if it means something._ It didn't, though; it was the sex that was important to Sherlock, that he was having a love affair with, not the person.

He tried to keep that in mind, but it was hard to remember, especially when Sherlock raggedly exhaled, “Fuck, John,” and John wondered how he had lived this long without hearing his name said like that, just exactly like that. He caught the back of Sherlock's head, fingers tugging at his hair, and pulled him down to kiss him as they moved together, sloppy and breathless but still somehow better than every kiss he'd shared with anyone else.

His chest was starting to really ache and he'd managed to knock the wound on his arm at some point, but he couldn't bring himself to care about any of it, could barely even register it when everything else felt so amazingly good. It was long and slow and intense in a way that John had thought only happened in bad novels, every touch of their bodies sending waves of lightning pleasure through him. It took him longer than it should have to remember to wrap his hand around Sherlock's cock, pulling on it to the same rhythm that Sherlock had set between them. Sherlock groaned and faltered for a moment, then continued with renewed energy.

Sherlock came first, clinging to John's shoulders with a grip that would bruise, his eyes wider than John had ever seen them, as he stared at John as if he was the only thing in the world. When John came, not long afterwards, he had to bite his tongue to stop the words he'd been sitting on for so long just flowing out of him, but he couldn't stop them from burning through his mind with such force that he knew he'd never be able to eradicate them. _I love you_.

Sherlock held him through it, then kissed him as soon as John could breathe again. John had very little idea of anything outside the post-orgasmic thrumming of his body and just followed Sherlock down as he pulled them back down to the bed, turning John to keep his chest from being hurt as he tucked them together. They lay like that for a very long time as their breathing slowed and feeling began to return to John's extremities, and Sherlock didn't let go of him the entire time.

It took John nearly half an hour to get at least some of his wits back and he felt some sympathy for the daze that Sherlock's conquests always seemed to have. _And now I'm one of them_ , he thought, but he didn't have the energy in him at that moment to regret it. No doubt that would come later.

When John's brain started working again, he found himself waiting for Sherlock to make his apologies and leave or, more likely, just get up and go without another word. He knew how this worked for Sherlock, after all, and he wasn't going to let himself become deluded into thinking that this was any different. Just one time, Sherlock had said, and now it was done with. He may have bent his rules enough to do this in John's room rather than his own, but he never slept with the men he'd had sex with.

Sherlock didn't move, though. John found himself getting tense waiting for it as he started to really think about what they'd done. Regret was finally beginning to build, along with recrimination. What had he been thinking? How on earth was he meant to keep living with Sherlock after this? How was he going to be able to keep his hands to himself and watch him seduce other men after having known what it was like to have this? This was it, over with. He was never going to get any part of this again, not even one of Sherlock's brain-melting kisses. How could he confine himself to just being Sherlock's friend when he'd had a taste of what it meant to be more? God, this had been such a mistake.

He forced it all back down and glanced over at Sherlock, wondering if he had any idea what kind of emotional maelstrom John was facing. It seemed incredibly unlikely that he had even the faintest idea what it was like to be so churned up about another person.

 _And that's why you'll make yourself let this go,_ thought John. Sherlock didn't do emotions, and forcing it was only going to end up with John hurting.

Sherlock's eyes were shut and his breathing was relaxed and slow. John frowned. “Are you going to sleep here?” he asked, unable to keep the incredulous tone completely out of his voice.

There was a long pause and John wondered if Sherlock was already asleep. “I have before,” he said eventually.

Something in John's chest unknotted itself and relaxed as he realised that Sherlock wasn't treating him like any other one-night-stand. The groundwork of their friendship – the part that had allowed Sherlock to sleep here last time, when they were both still reeling with horror from the thing with Jim – was still in place, and it would carry them through this as well.

John let his own eyes fall shut. “If you kick me in the night,” he said, “I shall take revenge.”

Sherlock let out a tired half-laugh. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Oh god, and now he was going to wake up at 4 in the morning with Sherlock kicking him just to see what he'd do. “Don't take it as one,” he said. “I do have a gun, you know.”

“Noted,” said Sherlock, which wasn't a promise that he'd behave, but John was too close to sleep to pursue the subject. He fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock's breathing and the weight of his hand on his hip.

 

****

 

Sherlock was still there when John woke up, sitting up against the headboard and staring blankly at the wall with a frown. His hand was still on John, now curled over his upper arm, but John wasn't sure he knew it was there. He rather looked as if he wasn't aware of anything outside his own brain.

John had even less idea how he was meant to be reacting to this than he had the last time he'd woken up with Sherlock in his bed. His head was aching in a vague way that said he'd probably mixed a bit too much alcohol with his pills, especially when it came to making decisions about whether or not he should have sex with his flatmate. He shifted to press his forehead against the pillows and Sherlock's eyes darted down to rivet on his face, coming back to the here-and-now.

He didn't say anything, of course, he left that tricky task up to John.

“Morning,” said John. There didn't seem any point in coming up with anything more original.

Sherlock continued to just stare at him for a moment. “Morning,” he responded after more time had passed than John was really comfortable with. So much for this not being awkward.

John pulled himself upright, feeling the ache in his chest as he did so. He'd definitely strained his bruises too much last night. Sherlock's hand fell away from his shoulder and John felt the loss of contact twist something cold in his stomach.

Wasn't this the part where everything was meant to carry on as normal, according to Sherlock? Well, if Sherlock wasn't going to lead that, and the way he was just staring at John without speaking implied that he probably wasn't, John would have to do it.

“Right,” he said decisively. “I'm going to have a shower, then make tea. I expect you to come and have tea with me, and then we can have our usual argument over whether or not you're going to eat breakfast.”

Sherlock's expression was blank and unreadable for another moment, and John feared that somehow they really had ruined everything, and Sherlock was realising that now they'd crossed that line, he didn't have any interest in John any more. Then Sherlock's face cracked into something far more recognisable: amused stubbornness.

“Breakfast is a complete waste of time, you know that, John.”

John was unable to stop the relieved smile from crossing his face, but he replaced it as quickly as he could with a stern glare. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Sherlock snorted. “Rubbish,” he muttered.

John smiled to himself as he headed for the bathroom. Maybe they'd be able to muddle through this after all, even if he did still feel as if he'd been pole-axed by the physical and emotional sensations of last night. He couldn't let himself think about that right now, and certainly not in front of Sherlock. He had a friendship to keep in one piece.

 

****

 

The day passed as normally as John could have hoped for, on the surface. Sherlock spent most of it either collapsed on the sofa or playing endless scales on his violin, but he didn't have the air of one of his black moods and he responded readily enough whenever John offered him tea, so John left him to it.

John spent most of the day trying to process what had happened last night and put the whole experience behind him, which turned out to be as tricky as he had feared it would be. Add in that the exertions of last night – not just the sex, but also all the dancing - had been a bit much for his recovering body, and a day spent quietly resting was just what he needed.

After dinner, Sherlock disappeared into his room. When he emerged, dressed for a night out, John was flicking between three different reality TV shows and wondering why anyone would watch any of them. Sherlock frowned at him.

“Aren't you coming out?”

“I think last night was enough for me,” said John. “I am still healing, you know.”

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. “Probably for the best.” He headed for the door but paused before he could go through it. “Stay safe,” he commanded.

John rolled his eyes. “I'm just going to watch crap telly and drink too much tea,” he said. “I'm pretty sure that's never done anyone any harm.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the screen, where some overly made-up twig of a woman was telling someone else that this was the best moment of her life. “It might well do your brain harm. You don't have much intelligence, John, but you do have some – try not to kill it off with this rubbish.”

He left before John could work out if that had been a compliment or not – it was always pretty tricky to tell with Sherlock.

 

****

 

John came down the next morning to find a blanket-covered lump on the sofa, and let out a sigh of relief even as a cold shard of hurt cut through him. Sherlock was getting back to his old ways, getting over the emotional fall-out of what Jim had done, and that was a good thing, no matter how much John might want to keep him to himself. He'd known all along that it would only ever be a one-time thing, so feeling the tiny part of himself that had persisted in hoping that Sherlock would change his mind and declare himself forever John's die off should not hurt as much as it did.

The lump on the sofa was still snoring, so John crept past it and started on his morning tea. _Stick to our routines_ , he thought to himself. Everything would fall into place if he just kept to his routine.

Whoever was on the sofa proved to have enviable sleeping skills, snoring straight through John's breakfast. When he did finally wake up, it was a long, slow process that involved not a few piteous moans of distress. John sat in his chair, newspaper resting on his lap, and wondered if the man knew that his drama had an audience.

“Oh, God,” the man groaned after few more minutes and flipped the blanket off his face. “John, for the love of flavoured lube, give me coffee.”

John stared in shock. It was Toby. “But Sherlock's slept with you already,” he blurted out.

Toby blinked at him. “Is my brain broken? What does that have to do with coffee?”

“Nothing,” admitted John, realising just how rude that had been. He shook his head. “I'll make you some coffee.”

“You're a beautiful person, John Watson,” said Toby fervently as John got up. “Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

While John made the coffee, he tried to think of some explanation. Sherlock's most steadfast and golden rule was that he'd only ever shag people once. The only time John had known him to break it was with Jim, and only then because he'd been manipulated into it. Perhaps he hadn't actually had sex with Toby and he was here for some other, totally innocent reason – locked out of his flat or something. Except that would rely on Sherlock being the type of person to think of offering a friend in need a place to stay, and John wasn't even sure that Sherlock was the kind of person to even notice a friend was in need, or, actually, to count Toby as a friend.

When he went back into the sitting room with Toby's coffee and more tea for himself, Toby had managed to make it to a sitting position, although he still had the blanket wrapped around him.

“God bless you,” he said when John put the mug in his hands. “You're a saint.”

The blanket was not enough to hide that he was at least shirtless under the blanket, or that he had a large lovebite on his neck that John thought was recognisable from the last time he had looked at his own neck in the bathroom mirror. Clearly, Sherlock's oral fixation found its way everywhere.

John sat back down and shook his head slightly. “I'm not wrong,” he said. “You have slept with him before.”

“Oh yes,” said Toby. “Six years ago. And last night.” He gave John a smug look. “Twice! I'm going to be the envy of the scene!”

“Right,” said John. Well, Sherlock was getting closer to going back to his old habits, he told himself. A step closer, even if it was still a bit odd.

Toby took pity on him, no doubt prompted by the completely perplexed look on his face. “He said it was part of an experiment,” he said. “Said he needed to have sex with someone he knew. Well, of course I wasn't going to say no to that.”

John felt himself go cold. Oh, he was going to kill him.

Toby's phone bleeped from the pile of clothes on the floor, and he rifled through them to pull it out and read whatever message he had just received. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my! I have to go,” he said, putting the coffee mug down, now empty. “Molly was at Chris and Jacob's again last night – I just _have_ to go and get The Gossip from her!”

He sprung up and pulled his clothes on without any sense of shame, moving with hyperactive energy. John wondered how he could go from sounding physically pained about being awake to bouncing about the place in less than five minutes and eyed the coffee mug nervously, wondering if Sherlock had used it for some kind of drug experiment.

“I'll see you later,” said Toby. “Tell Sherlock that it was mind-blowing, and I'll see him next time he's out.” He blew John a kiss and clattered off down the stairs.

 

****

 

John sat staring at his cup of tea until Sherlock emerged, wrapped in his dressing gown. He sat down on the sofa, right in the space that Toby had vacated. John didn't look up from his tea. “Toby had to go,” he said. “He said to tell you that it was mind-blowing.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hyperbole,” he said. “I doubt he has enough of a mind for it to be blown.”

John set his tea down rather carefully. “He said you were running an experiment, and wanted to sleep with someone you knew,” he said, just as carefully.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “He wasn't my first choice, of course, but there's not that many people who fit the category and-”

He cut himself off when John stood up and marched over to the door, picking up his coat as he went. He couldn't deal with this right now.

“Where are you going?” asked Sherlock.

John paused, gritting his teeth together. “I told you,” he said. “I said, right at the start, that I wouldn't be one of your bloody experiments.” He was shaking with rage now, and he knew he had to get out before he lost control and threw something at Sherlock. “You're a fucking bastard,” he contented himself with, then took off down the stairs even faster than Toby had gone, getting out of the building before Sherlock could respond.

He strode away from the flat with his hands clenched into fists in his pockets. Holding his right hand like that pulled at the healing patch on his arm, but he could barely feel the burn of it past his rage. He should have known it, of course he should have fucking known it. Sherlock always had a reason beyond just sex, there was always some data he wanted to gather, or a hypothesis he wanted to test, and John had let himself believe that Sherlock really did just want to sleep with him, that his bloody lies about not being able to stop thinking about him had been true.

 _'All about tailoring the chat-up line to the person,'_ of course it was, and the line for John was one that took advantage of his gullibility in believing Sherlock could ever feel more for him than he did for any of the other men he conned into sex. He'd been such a fool, of course it had all been an experiment – he'd even told John about it in advance. He must have finally decided it was time to run the one he'd been planning since he met John, and now he was getting corroborating data from people like Toby. No doubt he'd be going after Greg next.

John wanted to punch something but instead he walked, fast enough to be more of a jog, circling Regent's Park until he could begin to feel himself calm down. He was out-of-breath and the remnants of the bruises on his chest were complaining at the pace, so he stopped and sat on a bench, putting his head in his hands and trying to wipe away the sense of betrayal. He shouldn't have expected anything more; he knew Sherlock, after all.

His phone beeped in his pocket, and for a minute John resolutely did not check it, but the temptation to find out what Sherlock had to say for himself was too much.

_You weren't an experiment. SH_

Whilst John was still staring at it, wondering how Sherlock thought he would believe that given the current evidence, another message came through, followed in quick session by another two.

_I told you that. I wouldn't lie to you. SH_

_Toby was the experiment. I needed to corroborate a hypothesis. SH_

_Hypothesis probably a bit strong. More like a suspicion. SH_

John found himself typing back before he could talk himself out of it.

_What suspicion?_

There was a very long pause before the reply, during which John clutched at his phone and tried to ignore the curious looks of the passing dog-walkers.

_Can't say yet. More thought needed on the matter before conclusions can be drawn. SH_

Well, what the bloody hell did that mean? John scowled at his phone and shoved it in his pocket, as if putting it out of sight would make it go away.

“John,” said a voice to his left and John turned to see Sherlock coming towards him, dressed it what must have been the first thing he could find, because even John could tell his trousers didn't go with his shirt. As a sign that he cared about resolving this, that was fairly telling, but John was too angry to let it affect him.

“Can't a man get any peace?” he asked.

“You don't want peace,” said Sherlock. “You want to sit and fume so that you can work yourself into a state of complete irrationality.”

John stood up, wishing he'd gone somewhere less obvious so that he wouldn't have been found so easily. “Actually, I'm trying to calm myself down,” he said.

Sherlock glanced down at John's fists. “It's not working,” he said in a dry voice. John felt his glare go up several notches. “I'm not lying, John,” said Sherlock, turning serious. “You haven't been an experiment for me since the first few months I knew you. I've kept to everything we agreed – no experiments, no data, nothing. I haven't mentioned a word of it to anyone, not even when Greg asked me about it.”

“Greg asked?” said John.

Sherlock jerked his head in a half-shake. “He wanted to know if we'd managed to resolve our stand-off. I told him we'd come to an agreement, but nothing more.”

John had got a text from Greg last night, saying _You and Sherlock okay?_ At the time he'd thought he was asking because John hadn't come out and because he was a closet gossip-hound, but if Sherlock had been cagey about them, no wonder Greg had been texting him.

“So, sleeping with Toby was unrelated, then,” he said.

Sherlock hesitated, and that was all John needed to know. “Not completely unrelated, no,” he started, and John wasn't interested in letting him finish.

“Right,” he said, turning away and wondering where he could go to get away from Sherlock. Greg's? Harry's?

Sherlock darted forward and grabbed his arm, turning him back to face him. “You weren't an experiment,” he said in a desperate tone of voice. “I don't know how else to say it, John, you have to believe me. The thing with Toby – I'll explain it, I promise, but I can't yet. I don't have all the data – when I do, you'll be the first to know.”

He sounded both irritated and a bit frantic, as if he wasn't sure what he'd do if John chose to walk away, and so was finding the whole situation incredibly annoying. John searched his face for a long few moments, trying to work out if he should believe him, and saw nothing that indicated otherwise. He wouldn't, though, not if Sherlock didn't want him to.

He shook his head. “I never know if I can believe you,” he said.

The grip on his arm tightened. “You can always believe me,” said Sherlock. “I might not tell you everything, but I don't ever lie to you, John, I promise you that.”

John found himself caught for a moment, then let out a long sigh. The problem was he did believe Sherlock, somewhere deep down that he couldn't argue with. “If I find out later that you're playing with me,” he said in a warning tone.

“You won't,” said Sherlock, gripping harder at John's arm. John found a moment to be relieved that it was his left arm, and then wondered why he thought it wouldn't be. Sherlock had never once forgotten about John's injuries and accidentally hurt them. “My promises mean something.”

“Unless they're about sex toys in the fridge,” noted John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I never promised about that,” he said. He glanced around them. “Come on, let's have breakfast somewhere as we're both up and about so early.”

“Fine,” said John. “You're paying.”

“Left my wallet at home,” said Sherlock, finally letting go of John so that they could head out of the park.

“Of course you did,” said John with a sigh. “Next time you're paying, then.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock in the voice that meant 'maybe in our next lifetime'.

They were halfway to the nearest café when Sherlock glanced at John sideways and said, “I appreciate that you trust me on this, John.”

John wasn't sure what to say to that. “Don't make me regret it,” he went for in the end.

“I won't,” promised Sherlock, and put his hand on the small of John's back as he guided him into the café. The touch sent a thrill through John's body as he flashed back to Sherlock's hands on his naked skin, and he wondered just how long it was going to take to get over that one night.

 

****

 

It settled into a pretty normal Sunday after that. Sherlock changed his shirt the moment they returned from breakfast to one that suited his trousers and John wondered just how difficult it had been for him to sit all the way through breakfast dressed like that. He had to suppress a smile at the thought – it was a petty sort of revenge to revel in, but that didn't make it any less satisfying.

Besides, the fact that Sherlock hadn't insisted on coming back to change first said just as much as the fact he'd been wearing it in the first place. Whatever else might be going on with him, John couldn't deny that their friendship was just as important to Sherlock as it was to him. As long as they were both set on making sure that it survived, what could go wrong?

John spent a few hours pottering around, tidying up the flat while Sherlock lay on the sofa with his laptop, ignoring all John's gentle hints that he might like to help. He was engrossed in whatever he was doing on the computer, reading avidly for a while before muttering dark things to himself and clicking away from it almost violently. John wondered if he were conducting research on whatever data it was that he had collected from Toby last night, and then told himself off for referring to sex as 'data'. Besides which, the last thing he wanted to think about was Toby and Sherlock together, doing all the things that John had had barely twenty-four hours before.

Once the flat was about as tidy as he could be bothered to make it, he sat down next to Sherlock with the newspaper for his usual routine of trying to fumble his way through the crossword. It took Sherlock less than five minutes to burrow his feet underneath John's thigh and John had a sudden memory of what it had been like to be this close to Sherlock when they were both naked. He took a careful, calming breath and pushed the thought aside, but the gut-deep feeling of want that it churned up was harder to shake away.

When the room began to grow dark, Sherlock leapt off the sofa in one of his sudden, energetic moves that always took John by surprise. “Curry,” he announced, bounding into the kitchen for the takeaway menus.

“Don't I get a say?” asked John, but it was only half-hearted. Clearly Sherlock could tell that because he ignored him, phoning up the Indian and ordering precisely what John wanted without even glancing at him for confirmation. Everything as normal thought John, standing up to get the Doctor Who DVD they were on. He tried to think of it as a comforting thing, that they were putting everything behind them and moving back to where they should be, but he couldn't keep it from feeling more wistful, that they'd never move past friendship to the kind of relationship that John tried hard to never let himself consider.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he told himself as they settled on the sofa again. He needed to get control of himself, remind himself of the important things again, and whether or not he got to have sex with Sherlock was not an important thing. Whether or not they continued with the easy friendship that had been a cornerstone of his life since he got home from the war was.

 

****

 

When the episode they were watching while they ate came to an end, John levered himself off the sofa to clear up the plates. He came back with two mugs of tea that he put on the table, then sat down on the sofa beside Sherlock again.

“Next one?” he asked, picking up the remote.

“I'm curious,” said Sherlock. “When we've finally made it through every episode of the classic seasons, are we going to move on to the new series?”

John gritted his teeth. “No,” he snapped.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said. “And the film?”

“There's no need for that,” said John hurriedly. Just mentioning the film was enough to make his spine tense up. “We can start again at the beginning – it takes long enough to get through them all, after all.”

“You intend to spend the rest of your life endlessly cycling through them?” asked Sherlock.

John shrugged. “What's wrong with that?” he said, perhaps a bit defensively. “It's a good show.”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock. “Just mentally preparing myself.” He nodded regally at the telly. “You may continue.”

John hit play rather than throw the remote at him.

Five minutes into the episode, John became aware that while his eyes were fixed on The Doctor's manic hand-waving, Sherlock's were fixed on the side of John's face. John glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, which made Sherlock huff out a breath and turn back to the telly. Less than three minutes later, he let out an even bigger breath and shifted around on the sofa, then collapsed across it. Not in his usual manner, though, with his head on the arm and his feet tucked under John or lying across his legs. This time, he put his head right in John's lap before curling the rest of himself up on the sofa.

John started. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Watching a man in a wetsuit and a fish head attempt to be menacing,” replied Sherlock.

John glared at the top of his head, then when that had no effect, pushed at it instead. “What are you doing in my lap?” he clarified.

There was a brief silence, during which John just knew that Sherlock was debating repeating the same answer.

“I will push you off the sofa,” he said in a warning tone.

Sherlock sighed. “Just trying to get comfortable,” he said. “This sofa really isn't very big, you know.”

John looked down at him, at the dark curls that he wanted so desperately to tangle his hands in. It was worse now that he knew precisely what they felt running through his fingers, harder to block out the way the warmth of Sherlock's cheek could be felt through John's trousers. He felt an empty place inside him send out a desperate surge of yearning and drew in a quick breath through his nose. This was just not on – Sherlock was not an idiot, he must know that this kind of proximity was only going to torture John with the knowledge that he'd had his one night with him and there was never going to be a repeat.

“Right,” he said to himself and pushed at Sherlock's head again, moving him enough so that he could stand up and stride over to his chair instead. “Have the whole thing then,” he said.

Sherlock sat up with an affronted noise, but John ignored him. He kept his eyes firmly on the TV for the rest of the episode, ignoring Sherlock's disgruntled shifting about and the way it quietened down into a thoughtful silence that John just knew, without looking, came with a long stare at the back of his head.

They watched another four episodes like that, then Sherlock jumped up off the sofa before the titles had managed more than one note.

“I'm going out,” he announced.

John blinked at him. “On a Sunday?” he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “You're starting back at work tomorrow,” he pointed out. “You'll be going to bed in the next ten minutes. There's no need for me to stay here.”

“Right,” said John with resignation, because of course Sherlock knew that he'd decided that was going to have to be the last episode. “Where are you going, then? The Criterion?”

“What?” asked Sherlock in the midst of throwing on his coat. “No, no, not going to a _club_ ” - as if such an idea was impossibly ridiculous. “I have- there's data I need. Research. Might take a while, don't worry if I'm not back.” He was speaking in his breathless and completely over-excited way that meant he'd had a sudden flash of inspiration about something.

John nodded. “Try not to do anything too stupid,” he said without much hope of being listened to.

“Of course not, John,” said Sherlock, pausing in the doorway. “I'm far too clever for _stupid_.”

He rushed out before John could list all the times he'd managed to prove that statement wrong. John just shook his head and stood up in order to take himself off to bed.

 

****

 

Sherlock wasn't back the next morning when John got up for work, but he hadn't really expected him to be. When Sherlock said something might take a while, it meant that John shouldn't think about worrying until he'd been gone at least twenty-four hours. He sent Sherlock a quick text as he drank his morning tea: _If you get home before I do, buy milk,_ then pulled on his coat and set off for the clinic.

Sarah gave him a careful hug when he arrived there, exclaiming over how well he looked, and John was once again reminded that everyone knew just enough about his ordeal to think of him as something broken.

“I'm fine,” he said, stepping away from her arms when they started to put a little too much pressure on the bruises that were still slowly fading on his chest.

“Well, you've been missed around here,” she said. “Come and have some tea before we let the first patients in.”

Once he'd reassured her that there was no reason to treat him with kid gloves, the day passed reasonably quickly. It was good to get back to work, to feel like he was actually doing something again and not just sitting around over-thinking everything. With a full day of patients, it was a lot easier to ignore the fact that Sherlock hadn't texted him back, even after John sent him another text while on his lunch break.

He was tired when he got home, but in the good way that meant he'd actually done something and not in the dreary way that came after a day of sitting around trying to come up with things to do. Sherlock still wasn't back but John resolutely blocked off the first tendril of worry before it could creep too far. It wasn't the first time that Sherlock had disappeared for a day or so while following on the trail of some bit of research or carrying out some obscure experiment or another. And surely it was better that he was getting back to his 'work' rather than hovering around John all the time?

When Sherlock still wasn't back much later that evening though, John allowed himself to send another text.

_Do me a favour and let me know you're okay._

When there was no reply to that one either, he finally gave in to the worry that had been filling up his stomach slowly over the evening. It was gone midnight when he texted Greg, but he knew if he didn't, there would be no sleep for him tonight.

_Heard from Sherlock today?_

The reply was almost immediate.

_He's here. Please, please come and take him away before I choke him to death._

The relief was immediately followed by a sense of foreboding. Two 'pleases'. Oh, this was not going to be good.

 _On my way_ , he texted back, grabbing his coat and keys. _What's he done now?_

The reply came while he was in the taxi. _No idea. He turned up here about an hour ago and won't leave._

What was that crazy bastard up to now? John let out a groan of frustration, then took a deep breath as the taxi pulled up outside Greg's building. He'd faced bombs, insurgents, the Army's idea of edible food and a psychopathic serial killer. Whatever Sherlock was up to, it couldn't be worse than any of that.

He rang Greg's doorbell and was buzzed in without Greg bothering to come to the intercom. He made his way upstairs and knocked on the door of his flat, and there was a series of thuds and an exclamation from inside.

Greg threw the door open with a look of desperate relief. “Thank God you're here,” he said.

“Who's that?” came Sherlock's voice from further inside the flat. “Who is it, Greg?”

“It's me,” called John, following Greg inside.

There was another thump and Greg winced. “Sherlock! Be gentle with my furniture!”

They went into the sitting room and John blinked at the sight that met him. Sherlock was balanced in a precarious perch on the back of one of Greg's armchairs, arms half-raised to keep his balance. He was still dressed in the outfit he'd been wearing yesterday but it looked as if he'd been through a whirlwind since then. And struck by lightning, if his hair was anything to go by.

“What on earth have you done to yourself?” demanded John.

Sherlock scowled at him and leapt off the back of the chair, making it wobble precariously while Greg exclaimed, “Careful!”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, ignoring Greg's concern for his furniture. “Why are you here? You have work tomorrow, you should be asleep.”

“So should I!” said Greg. “And yet there's a madman gallivanting around my home, asking me endless questions and refusing to go away!”

Sherlock made a loud and impatient noise then paced the length of the room, running his hands through his hair as he did so. “I would if you'd just give me the right answers!” he said. “You've been no help at all!” He climbed up and over the coffee table, stepping through a pile of letters and newspapers as if he hadn't even seen them. Manic energy was crackling off him and John began to have a very nasty suspicion.

“Please tell me you're not high,” he said.

Sherlock threw him a disgusted look. “Of course not,” he said. “Why on earth would I get high and then come to a policeman's home? Think, John!”

John took a deep breath, then pointed at one of Greg's chairs. “Sit down,” he said in his best Commanding Officer voice. Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at him. John raised an eyebrow and didn't move until Sherlock had reluctantly slumped into the chair. “Right. Tell me exactly what's going on.”

Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh. “It's obvious, surely?” he said. “I had some questions that I assumed Greg would be able to answer, but he's been incredibly unhelpful.”

Well, that didn't answer anything John was interested in. He looked Sherlock over again, taking in his clothes, his manic expression and the way he couldn't seem to stop his leg twitching. “Sherlock, did you bother sleeping last night?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not,” he said. “I was _busy_.”

“Right,” said John. “And what have you eaten since the curry?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Food's a waste of time,” he said.

John clenched his jaw but persisted with his questions. “And drunk?”

Sherlock stilled for a moment and John knew he'd got to the heart of the matter. “Oh, just some coffee, tea, that kind of thing,” said Sherlock. “A couple of cans of Red Bull. Does it matter?” he leapt up. “Come on, Greg's obviously not going to be any help, let's go home.”

John pointed back at the chair again. “Sit,” he commanded. Sherlock sat. “How much coffee? Precisely how many cans of Red Bull?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I wasn't keeping track.”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Greg weakly.

John wasn't finished yet, though. “Roll up your sleeves,” he said to Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated and John strengthened his glare. “Don't make me do it for you,” he said.

Sherlock let out an enormous sigh and undid his cuffs, flicking up his sleeves to reveal four nicotine patches.

“Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock,” muttered John. He strode forward and ripped them all off with no gentleness, ignoring Sherlock's indignant cry. “You're a bloody idiot,” he said. “Come on, get up. We're going home.”

“No,” said Sherlock, stubbornly staying seated. “I haven't finished yet – there's still data I need, Greg is being extremely unhelpful.”

“Greg will continue being extremely unhelpful,” said Greg. “I don't know what answers you expect me to have, but it doesn't work like a formulae, there isn't a set pattern to follow. And if there was, I'd be the last person to know it.”

“What's he been asking about?” asked John.

“Relationships,” said Greg, rubbing a hand over his face. “As if I'm any kind of expert on them – I should think my track record speaks for itself.”

“Relationships?” repeated John. Sherlock had never shown any interest in anything other than the most fleeting of one-night-stands, why would he want data about relationships?

“I just wanted to know how they worked,” said Sherlock, still scowling.

“Please, please tell me you're not thinking of branching out into relationship advice,” said John, trying to imagine anyone who'd be worse at it, and only managing to come up with Jim.

“God, of course not,” said Sherlock with an expression of utter distaste. “Dull! It just seemed like a black hole in my knowledge that might prove relevant. A great deal of sex occurs within relation ships, you know.”

“Right,” said John.

Sherlock shoved his hands into his hair and pulled, hard enough that John winced in sympathy. “I just want to know why they _work_ , and how, and what the point is, but Greg is just being insufferably obtuse and unreasonably unhelpful and deliberately trying to drive me insane!”

Right then he looked as if he might be insane. John let out a deep sigh and gave Greg a despairing look.

Greg echoed his sigh. “Relationships work because both parties concentrate on working out exactly what they want and exactly what the other person wants, and then attempt to find compromises for the places where those don't match up,” he said.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, frowning as he processed that.

“And if you can't see the point,” added Greg, “there's no way I'll be able to explain it. You can't explain what makes you want to have someone by your side.”

He looked tired and sad as he said that and John wanted to clap a hand to his shoulder and tell him that Mycroft was an idiot, but he wasn't sure the gesture would be appreciated. Well, the least he could do was get the caffeine-hyped seduction consultant out of his flat and let him get some sleep.

“Is that enough?” he asked Sherlock. “Can we go now, before Greg decides to arrest you for being exceptionally annoying?”

Sherlock sprung up from the chair. “Yes!” he announced. “That should be enough, for now. If I have any further questions-”

“Then don't ask me,” said Greg. “All I know is how to make relationships fail, after all.” He sounded horribly bitter, and John glanced away from his assessment of just how much caffeine was in Sherlock's system to look at him. This thing with Mycroft had clearly affected him even more than John had realised, and he made a mental note to find some time to take him out for a quiet, Sherlock-free pint so that he could vent about it.

Sherlock stood up, straightening his clothes and running his hand through his hair as if that would do anything to tame it. “Nonsense,” he said. “You've clearly made an enormous impact on Mycroft. I suspect you could persuade him to compromise on almost anything at this point.”

“What?” said Greg. “No, I bloody couldn't – he still won't let go of this stupid job thing.”

Sherlock stopped in the process of heading for the front door and let out a sigh. “Of course you could,” he said. “He's been here, hasn't he? The signs are obvious.”

“Yes,” said Greg. “He was here yesterday, but only to-”

Sherlock interrupted him with an upheld hand. “Mycroft sticks rigidly to his familiar haunts unless he absolutely has to go elsewhere. He has managed to completely arrange his life so that he solely travels between his flat, his club, and an over-priced restaurant that's between the two. The fact that he has left his orbit for you at least twice now – he came to The Criterion as well, don't forget - means that you clearly have power over him that you just need to exploit. If you lay down the terms by which you would continue the relationship with him, clearly and precisely, then he will almost certainly give in.”

Greg blinked at him, then tipped his head to one side. “Really?” he asked in a doubting voice.

“Of course,” said Sherlock, resuming his journey to the door. “Just remember – precision and certainty are everything when dealing with Mycroft. Know exactly what you want before you open up communications. Come on, John.”

John exchanged a quick, eyebrows-raised glance with Greg, than hurried after Sherlock before he got himself into any more trouble.

The cab driver's expression was a picture when he saw Sherlock, but he let him get into his taxi, albeit with reluctance.

“Baker Street, please,” said John, and he nodded.

Sherlock collapsed back against the seat with a sigh, then twitched and sat up rigidly straight a moment later, staring at John.

“Right,” said John. “Where else have you been, and who else have you upset? Do I need to send out a mass email of apology?”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “You need do nothing,” he said. “Really, John, why does it matter?”

“Because these people are my friends,” said John. “Come on, out with it, Sherlock. Who else have you descended upon?”

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “No one,” he said. “I was merely trying to find somewhere to think without distractions.”

“Right,” said John sceptically. “And I'm meant to believe that anyone can think with that much caffeine in their system?”

“I can think far better like this than most people will ever manage on their very best day,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, of course,” said John. “How silly of me to think that sending yourself into the early stages of a caffeine overdose would cause you to do stupid things like harassing a man who has just broken up with his boyfriend about relationships.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “I was asking for generalities, not specifics,” he said.

“Right, well, forgive me if I don't trust you to be able to make a judgement call about what might or might not have upset anyone else you came into contact with today,” said John.

Sherlock let out an almighty sigh, putting his whole body into it as if it was performance art. “I didn't see anyone else,” he said. “Well, not anyone we know, anyway.”

John let himself relax slightly. “Okay, good,” he said.

There was silence for a few minutes, then Sherlock added. “I might have been banned for life from Highgate Library.”

John let out a groan. “Oh god, Sherlock, how?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The librarians failed to appreciate my opinions on romantic literature. Have you ever read the sex scenes in those books, John? It's appalling that they allow that kind of thing – I thought this was meant to be a civilised country.”

So, at some stage today Sherlock had gone and read romance novels in Highgate Library. John wondered just how much caffeine it would take for him to think that would ever be a good idea.

“It is possible I should also avoid Alexandra Park for a while,” added Sherlock after another moment.

John put his head in his hands. “Do I want to know?”

“Almost certainly not,” said Sherlock. John decided to trust his judgement on that one, and let the subject go.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock headed straight for his room.

“Sherlock, wait,” said John. “At least let me check you over – god knows how much caffeine is in your system at the moment.”

“I'm fine,” said Sherlock, not stopping. “You worry too much.”

“Sherlock,” started John, but was interrupted.

“John, I intend to burn off the rest of my energy on masturbation. Lots of masturbation. Go to bed.”

He shut his bedroom door behind him, leaving John staring after him, not sure if he was more annoyed or- No, no, he was definitely annoyed. Pillock. He went up to his own bedroom to collapse into bed and carefully not calculate how many hours he had left before his alarm went off.

 

****

 

John came home from work the next day to find the flat quiet and Sherlock nowhere around. He spent a few moments hoping, fervently, that Sherlock wasn't off doing something that would involve John having to go and collect him again, and started making himself some tea. After another few minutes, Sherlock emerged from his room, his hair all over the place and his pyjamas rumpled.

“What time is it?” he asked in a voice that was more dazed than John had ever heard him.

John glanced at his watch. “Six twenty-three,” he said.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, subsiding into a chair. “I have been asleep for nearly fourteen hours.”

John felt his eyebrows go up at that. No wonder Sherlock looked wrung out. “And have you learnt your lesson about abusing caffeine?” he asked.

Sherlock groaned and rested his face in his hands. “Just give me tea, not a lecture.”

“You deserve a lecture,” said John, but settled for the tea. After he'd made it, he scouted around the kitchen for something to cook. Given how little sleep he'd ended up getting last night, he was tempted to just give in and get a takeaway, but they'd done that far too often since the incident with Jim.

He made them some pasta, which seemed to be just about all they had in at the moment, and didn't even have to nag Sherlock into eating it, which was a relief. Apparently whatever had got him so wound up last night wasn't one of the 'little problems' that he refused to eat during. He was obviously still trying to recover from his marathon sleep though, and said little until the meal was over and John was eyeing the plates, wondering if he had the energy to wash up now or if they could wait until tomorrow.

“John,” he asked in the tone of voice that meant he was about to embark on a line of questioning that John was likely to find intrusive and irritating. “What is it that you look for when considering a potential partner?”

Oh yes, this was just the conversation that John wanted to have tonight. “Surely you know that already,” he said. “You've seen me on the pull often enough.”

“I know you prefer brunettes to blonds; look first at a man's face, then at his hands; tend to go for those taller than yourself – not that there are many shorter than you, of course; are most easily taken in by someone who can make you laugh in the first five minutes of conversation-”

“Taken in?” interrupted John, but was ignored.

“-And have an inexplicable fondness for extremely cheesy chat-up lines,” finished Sherlock. “The information I am looking for is what, specifically, you look for in someone in order to enter into a relationship with them, as opposed to just indulging in a one-night-stand.”

Relationships again. John frowned. “What's this sudden fascination with relationships?” he asked.

Sherlock scowled. “I told you, I'm expanding my knowledge. Answer the question.”

John gave him a suspicious look, but it seemed much easier to just give in and answer the question than get into a debate about it. “I don't know,” he said. “Someone who likes me, I suppose. Someone who isn't going to bore me,” he added, remembering Sean, “and that I can have a laugh with.”

“Is that all?” asked Sherlock.

John shrugged. “There's not a set list or anything, Sherlock.” he said. “You just look for someone who you care about, who cares about you, and who you want to spend as much time with as possible.”

“I see,” said Sherlock in a quiet voice.

“It's not something you can analyse, really,” added John. “I don't think any amount of data gathering will ever make sense of it. You're probably better off sticking to sex and seduction for that.”

Sherlock frowned but didn't say anything, apparently content to stare at the wall for a while. John stood up and left him to it in favour of moving the dishes into the sink so that he could at least pretend he'd sort of cleared up.

 

****

 

Sherlock spent the next two days in one of his deep-thinking moods, laid up on the sofa with his eyes fixed on the middle-distance and a stack of discarded nicotine patches next to him. John left him to it because he'd learnt very early in their friendship that interrupting Sherlock when he was thinking was considered the ultimate crime.

It was late on Wednesday night when he finally moved. John was settled in his armchair with a medical journal, trying to concentrate on the management of stable angina and not get too distracted by wondering what kind of heart conditions a species with two hearts would be liable to, when Sherlock sat up. John glanced up at him and was rewarded with a piercing gaze.

“John,” said Sherlock.

John waited a moment, but there didn't seem to be anything else forthcoming. “Yes?” he asked.

Sherlock continued to stare at him for a few moments, then blinked and smiled. John wasn't sure what to make of it; it didn't look like any of Sherlock's usual smiles, which tended more towards the 'smirk' end of the spectrum. There was an aura of genuine happiness about it, combined with faint triumph.

“Tea,” Sherlock announced, as if that explained anything. He stood up and bounded away to the kitchen before John could ask what the hell that had been about.

“Make me some,” he called after him, rather than trying to puzzle it out, and went back to his journal. If he tried to understand every one of Sherlock's odd moments, he'd spend his whole life at it.

 

****

 

The next day he came home from work to find Sherlock camped out on the floor, surrounded by stacks of paper and books and with both their laptops open and humming away beside him. It looked like a perfectly ordinary scene to find in their flat until John started to pick his way over the piles and realised that several of the books were his old medical textbooks and that the rest had titles like 'Corpse: Nature, Forensics and the Struggle to Pinpoint Time of Death' and 'The Hospital Autopsy: A Manual of Fundamental Autopsy Practice'.

John stopped dead. “Oh god, Sherlock, please tell me you're not branching out into necrophilia.”

Sherlock looked at him with exasperation. “John, not everything I do is related to sex,” he said, which was a blatant lie. “Besides, what on earth would be the point in sex with a corpse? There's no chase, no seduction, no reactions to analyse – dull!”

“Yes, because most people's objections to necrophilia have to do with how boring it would be,” said John, resuming his path to the kitchen.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “Most people,” he muttered.

“Actually,” added John as he reached the kitchen without falling over any of the stacks, “as there's no reactions from a corpse, surely that just makes it the perfect control subject?”

Sherlock froze, and then he looked up at John with wide, fascinated eyes. “John,” he breathed as if having a revelation.

John stopped. “No!” he said firmly. “No, Sherlock, I was joking, you can't-”

Sherlock's expression cracked into laughter. “Oh, John,” he said. “You're so easy.”

John made a face and marched to the kettle, muttering to himself. How was he meant to know where Sherlock drew the line? Most of the time it didn't seem like he even had a line.

Sherlock got up from the floor and hopped gracefully through the mess in order to stand in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the wall. John ignored him in favour of flicking the kettle on and pushing up his sleeves so that he could wash two of the many dirty mugs that were in the sink. Tonight he really was going to have to knuckle down and actually do some washing up, but for now all they needed was two mugs, so that was all he could be bothered to do.

“Shouldn't you have taken that off by now?” asked Sherlock, and John glanced over to see that his gaze was fixed on the dressing around John's forearm.

“It's still healing,” said John shortly. The last thing he wanted to talk about was the permanent reminder of Jim that was etched into his arm.

“It's been over two weeks,” said Sherlock. "The doctor said you'd probably only need it for ten days."

John scowled at him. “I'm a doctor too, you know,” he snapped. “I know when something is still healing.”

“I see,” said Sherlock, tipping his head to one side. “Tell me, Doctor, do you also know about avoidance and repression?”

John slammed the two mugs he had washed down next to the kettle and pulled his sleeves back down. “It's none of your business,” he said. “Leave it alone.”

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes and John let himself believe that the conversation was over. The kettle boiled and he busied himself pouring the water, ignoring the feel of Sherlock's eyes on his back. As he set the kettle down, a hand wrap itself around his wrist just above the line Jim had carved on it, and John jumped when he realised that Sherlock had managed to walk right up behind him without him hearing.

“Sherlock,” he hissed. “Get off.”

Sherlock ignored him. He pulled John's sleeve back up, one hand still holding on to his wrist, and John thought about pulling away but feeling Sherlock's touch on his skin was vividly reminding him of the night they'd spent together, and what it had been like to feel those hands over other parts of his skin. Pulling away was hard when he had those images running through his head.

Sherlock started to carefully peel the dressing off John's arm and John tensed up. “Sherlock,” he said in a low voice. “Don't.”

“Just let me,” said Sherlock, but his fingers had stopped moving. “You're going to have to face it sooner or later, John.”

John took a deep breath. Sherlock was right, of course, but that didn't mean he wanted to. He remembered the first time he had forced himself to look at the scar the bullet had left on his shoulder in the mirror, mapping over it until it became part of who he was and not a surprise every time he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye.

“Right, okay,” he said through gritted teeth. Better to get it over with now, with his skin tingling under Sherlock's fingers and the distraction of Sherlock's proximity keeping at least half his mind running along other, much more interesting thoughts, than to wait until he was alone in his room.

Sherlock teased the dressing off as gently as he could, managing to catch only a few hairs as he pulled it away. John found his gaze darting away as the scar was revealed, but forced himself to look at it. From a professional point of view, the graft had healed nicely, with no signs of infection or complications.

Sherlock traced a finger next to it, his fingertip barely brushing over John's skin. “It could have been much worse,” he said, but John wasn't sure if he was reminding himself or John.

“He said he wanted to destroy my hands,” said John, his mouth drying as he remembered Jim's threats. “I was lucky you arrived when you did.”

Sherlock's jaw clenched, but his grip on John's arm remained gentle. He rubbed a thumb over the lines Jim had carved into the back of John's hand, which had faded to pink lines. “Luck would have been if I got there early enough to prevent any of this,” he said. “Or if I'd bothered to actually look at him and see who he really was.”

“Sherlock,” said John, reaching out to capture his hand. “That you got there at all was a miracle, as far as I'm concerned. I thought I was-” He heard his voice waver and had to take a breath to steady it. “I thought I was going to die there. You found me before he could do anything that would have left more damage than just a few scars. You must know how incredibly grateful I am.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, still staring down at the heart carved into John's arm. When he looked up, he said, “In that case, you can pay me back by not hiding this.” He tapped his finger against John's wrist.

“Ah, I don't-” started John, trying to pull his arm away so that he could roll his sleeve down again.

Sherlock tightened his grip in order to keep John's arm where it was. “You said yourself that you were lucky to get away with so little. They're marks of luck, not pain. Besides, you were only targeted because of me – because you were the reason I didn't want to leave London, which makes them my fault. They're my marks, not Jim's.”

John looked back down at his arm, trying to think of the scars as not something Jim had inflicted on him, but something he had suffered for Sherlock's sake. It was surprisingly easy – he'd known within only a day of meeting Sherlock, when he'd taking out a gaybasher who'd been drunk enough to get violent with a punch that had knocked the man straight into unconsciousness, that there was very little he wouldn't do to keep Sherlock safe. If he'd had his gun on him at the time the man had gone for Sherlock with a bottle, he had no doubt he'd have shot him

“Right,” he said, ducking a nod. “All right. I'll try.”

“Good,” said Sherlock and rubbed his thumb over John's skin again. John looked at him and was suddenly aware of how close he was and how easy it would be to lean up and kiss Sherlock right now. The idea filled his mind, fleshed out with the memories of how Sherlock's lips had felt, and for a moment he was frozen in place. Sherlock didn't move either, apparently content to look down into John's eyes from only a few inches away. For a moment hope surged in John's heart, then he sharply reminded himself that Sherlock had never really understood the concept of personal space. He forced himself to step away, turning back to the tea, which was probably over-steeped by now.

“John-” started Sherlock. “I-” He cut himself off before John could, but John wasn't taking the risk that he'd find another way to phrase what was likely to be a reminder of how things stood between them, and how that wasn't going to change.

“I'll bring your tea through,” John said in a tone that he hoped conveyed how over the conversation was, and that he therefore understood without having to be told.

Sherlock was still for a moment behind him, then went back into the sitting room. John listened to him settle back down on the floor in the midst of his piles of books and shut his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to lock down his feelings. He was Sherlock's friend and flatmate, and neither of those roles came with the right to kiss him.

When he took the tea through, he left his sleeves rolled up, and Sherlock glanced at his forearm and then smiled as he took his tea. It was almost enough to fill up the hole in John's chest.

 

****

 

That Friday, Sarah let John go home early. “Go on,” she said. “It's still only your first week back, after all.”

John thought about protesting that he was fine and didn't need molly-coddling, but the truth was he could do with a couple of hours to sit down at home before they went out. He was looking forward to getting out and having a dance, especially now that his chest was mostly healed up, and if the night ended with Sherlock shagging some random guy, well, John knew who was going to be watching Doctor Who with him on Sunday night. That was more important than getting to taste Sherlock's skin again, surely?

Greg was in their sitting room when John got in, saying something exasperated to Sherlock over an open folder.

“Don't be an idiot,” Sherlock said to him. “Of course the husband was having an affair, you've read his statement. He might as well have painted it on his forehead! Look at this photo – the turn-ups of his jeans, for god's sake!”

“What's going on?” asked John, and Sherlock looked up with an expression as if he'd been caught washing his sex toys with John's facecloth again.

“You're early,” he said.

John raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he agreed, taking off his coat. “What are you two up to?” he asked again. Letting Sherlock distract him from a question usually led to unpleasant surprises further down the line.

“I brought some case files over, in the hopes that Sherlock would spot something we'd miss,” said Greg.

John dropped down into a chair. “Isn't that a bit against the rules?”

“A bit,” admitted Greg. “These are all quite old, though – I didn't think there'd be much harm in it.”

“Greg was extremely impressed with how I found Jim,” said Sherlock. “He seems to have finally realised that I'm a genius, and now he's trying to take advantage of me.”

Greg gave Sherlock a look that John couldn't quite unravel, something that included an edge of amusement. “And you're being so retiring about putting forward your opinion,” he said. He gathered the files up and stood. “I should get going, anyway. Angelo's at the usual time tonight?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock.

John remembered that he'd been intending to give Greg a chance to moan about Mycroft. “Actually, I was going to suggest we meet a bit earlier for a pint and a chat,” he said.

“Sounds good,” said Greg. “The Bree Louise?”

John nodded. “At seven?” he suggested. They usually went to Angelo's at nine, so that would give them a couple of hours to talk.

“Sounds good,” said Greg.

“What about me?” asked Sherlock in a petulant voice.

“What about you?” replied John. “You hate the Bree Louise, and having a quiet pint and a chat.”

“We'll meet you at Angelo's,” said Greg. “Don't worry, I swear I won't steal your flatmate.” Sherlock made an aggrieved noise and glared at him.

John laughed. “Not sure there's room for a flatmate at your place,” he said.

“There's barely room for me,” acknowledged Greg. He hesitated for a moment, then headed for the door. “Right, I'll see you later, then. Bye, John, Sherlock.”

“Bye,” returned John, then looked over at Sherlock, who was still scowling at the door after Greg. “Early dinner?” he asked.

The scowl was wiped off Sherlock's face. “You can cook that chicken that's clogging up the fridge,” he suggested.

“You could cook it,” said John and the look of horrified disdain on Sherlock's face made him grin, even as he knew he really should be annoyed that he was expected to do all the cooking and cleaning and the rest of the mundane household tasks. He'd never really been bothered with getting worked up about that, though – living with Sherlock wasn't like living with anyone else, and he wouldn't want it to be.

He stood up. “Right, I'll cook then,” he said. “And you can finally clear that condom experiment off the table. It's been there ages, and you haven't touched it for weeks.”

Sherlock let out a put-upon sigh, but stood up and followed John into the kitchen. “It's not just a condom experiment,” he said. “I was trying to recreate that erection-boosting condom, as they seem to be taking forever to make it available for purchase.”

“Well, you hardly need one of those, do you?” said John and then was hit by a sudden and powerful memory of what, exactly, Sherlock's cock had been like in his hand, hard and perfect. Heat surged through him, and then his lungs clenched when he realised that he'd never get to feel it again.

“Of course not,” said Sherlock as John took a breath and tried to continue as normal. “But there are a great many men in London who do.” He swept the condoms that were lying around the table into a pile and then starting to gather up the beakers containing odd, gooey substances. “Not you, of course,” he added in an off-hand manner. “You're more than fine in that department.”

John felt himself go pink and had to force himself to concentrate on the chicken in the fridge, and what he might do with it. “Well, they'll just have to wait for the official thing,” he said in the steadiest voice he could manage, ignoring the compliment as best he could. “I want our kitchen table back, at least for a few hours before you cover it with the next thing.”

“The next thing,” repeated Sherlock in an undertone. “Yes.” John turned around at the tone of his voice, thoughtful and introspective, and caught an odd look on his face that was wiped away as soon as Sherlock realised he was being observed. He put the beakers down next to the sink (where John would end up being the one to wash them, of course), caught up the condoms in his hands and disappeared into his room with them.

“Oh, that wasn't worrying at all,” said John under his breath, then turned back to the fridge.

 

****

 

The Bree Louise was a quiet little pub just around the corner from the flat that John liked both for their large selection of ales and because Sherlock hated it so much that he refused to set foot in it, which made it perfect for getting away from him for a bit.

Greg was already at a table with a pint when John arrived, a bit late because Sherlock had blocked the door and refused to let him leave the house in the first shirt he'd put on. John rather suspected that when he got back, some mysterious act of destruction would have occurred in the vicinity of it, given the tortured glares Sherlock had given it.

“Sorry,” he said, sliding into the seat opposite Greg. “Sherlock.”

That was enough explanation to make Greg give him a commiserating look before a spark lit up in his eyes and he leaned forward. “Are you going to tell me what's going on with the two of you? Every time I ask Sherlock, he looks horribly smug but refuses to say anything. Did you actually shag him?”

Oh, right, he didn't know about that yet. Somehow John had managed to put off actually telling him about it. “You're such a gossip-monger,” he said instead of answering.

“Yeah, I know,” said Greg unrepentantly. “I'm a gay man – it's one of the perks. Tell me everything.”

“Only if you tell me all about what's going on with Mycroft in return,” bargained John.

Greg hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Fine,” he said.

“And let me get a pint first,” added John, standing up. “I'm probably going to need it.”

He told Greg what had happened as briefly as he could get away with, despite Greg constantly stopping him to get more details.

“Wait, so all he did to get you to give in was to kiss you?” he asked. “An hour before that you were dead set that it was never going to happen!”

John shrugged sheepishly. “Yeah, well, it's Sherlock,” he said.

“Christ,” said Greg. “Go on, then. What happened next?”

“I'm not telling you about the sex,” protested John.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Like I need to hear about that,” he said. “Tell me what happened after the sex. How did Sherlock react?”

John filled him in on Sherlock spending the night in his bed and the awkward next morning and how it had gradually faded back into normalcy. Well, normalcy for them. “And then he went out that evening and shagged some guy,” he finished. “Well, not some guy, it was Toby, but it means the same thing.”

Greg nodded slowly, giving John a narrow-eyed look. “And you're fine with that.”

John rolled his eyes. “He's back to how he always is,” he said. “That's a good thing. I can't say that it was my best idea ever to sleep with him, but if it's sorted out whatever was up with him after the Jim thing, then maybe it was worth it.”

Greg snorted. “You really think he's back to normal?”

“Close enough,” said John. “He's not hovering around me all day, or refusing to have sex with anyone else until he's had sex with me.”

“No, that's true,” agreed Greg, but he didn't sound very convinced.

“Enough about me,” said John. “What's going on with you and Mycroft? Did you follow Sherlock's advice?”

Greg paused, covering it by taking a sip of his pint. “Sort of,” he hedged.

“I think I'm going to need more detail than that,” said John. “Come on, you made me spill, now it's your turn.”

“All right, fine,” said Greg. “I emailed him. Told him I still wanted to see him, but that I wasn't ever giving up my job, and if he thought he could control me like that, then he could go take a running jump. Or, well, I phrased it a bit more politely.”

“A bit?” asked John.

Greg grinned. “A very little bit,” he said.

“And has he replied?” asked John.

Greg nodded. “He called last night. We're going to dinner tomorrow and we're going to talk it all over properly, but- Well.” he cleared his throat. “He suggested that if we were both going to keep our very time-consuming jobs, it might be best if we moved in together, so we could spend all the rest of our time together.”

“Move in together?” repeated John. “Wow, that's big.” He had a sudden thought. “Oh, Sherlock would go spare.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, almost worth doing it just for the look on his face,” he said. “He wouldn't be coming around on a caffeine high at midnight then.”

“So you're thinking about it?” asked John.

Greg hesitated again, then nodded. “Yeah, I think I am,” he said. “I mean, you pointed out earlier that my flat's not exactly the Ritz. Central London is a rubbish place to try and afford on your own. And, well,” he ducked his head a bit, “I really like Mycroft. I think we could make living together work.”

John grinned at him and raised his glass. “I hope it works out for you, then,” he said. “You'll have to let me know how it goes tomorrow.”

“Only if you don't make me wait a week to find out next time you sleep with Sherlock,” replied Greg.

John laughed. “Next time? Yeah, that'll happen.”

Greg just smiled and took another sip of his pint.

 

****

 

They met Sherlock at Angelo's. He looked them both over with narrow eyes, then glared at John. “I thought you said we weren't allowed to talk about it.”

“I said you weren't allowed to tell the world about it,” corrected John. “I never said anything about me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but let it go. They had a couple of drinks and then headed to the Criterion where they ran into Toby, who was with a detachment of the Twink Army that included David and Molly. John stopped to talk to them for a bit and when he turned around Sherlock had disappeared.

“He's up there,” said Greg, nodding up at the balcony. John looked up to see Sherlock leaning on the railings and glaring down at the dance floor as if it had done him some personal wrong.

“Molly!” said an excited voice from John's left and Jacob bounded past, closely followed by Chris. They both greeted her with kisses and John exchanged raised eyebrows with Greg. Molly blushed pink under the attention, but seemed perfectly happy to keep clinging onto Jacob's arm as she said something close to Chris's ear.

“That seems to be working out, at least,” said Greg.

John shook his head. “I'm sure it's a sign that I've spent too much time around Sherlock that it doesn't even seem that weird.”

“Well, except that she's a woman,” added Greg.

John snorted. “Oh yes. Heterosexual sex remains his one big taboo.” He glanced up at Sherlock's brooding figure again. “I suppose I should go and see what's up with him,” he said. “He'll only sulk more if he thinks he isn't getting any attention.”

When he got up to where Sherlock was, he could see that Sherlock's facial expression was less a glare of hatred and more his deep-thinking face.

“What's up?” John asked as he settled next to him on the railing. Greg had followed him upstairs and went to stand on the other side of Sherlock, but he was preoccupied with something on his phone.

Sherlock glanced at John, then back at the dance floor. “Which one?” he asked, gesturing at the moving mass of men below.

“Which one what?” asked John.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “Which one should I have sex with?” he clarified in tones that implied John was an idiot for not understanding immediately.

“Christ, I don't know,” said John. “How do you usually decide?”

Sherlock didn't bother answering the question. “If you could have sex with only one of them, and then that was it for the rest of your life,” he asked, “which would you pick?”

 _You,_ thought John, which Sherlock would probably find unhelpful and irritating as an answer. “I don't know,” he said instead. “Someone who wants me, probably.”

Sherlock gave him a disgusted look. “John, they _all_ want me.”

Greg snorted, tucking away his phone. “There's that Holmes modesty we all love so much,” he said.

“Which would you pick?” Sherlock asked him. “Anyone here, all these men – how would you decide?”

“I wouldn't,” said Greg. “I'm bored of one-night-stands.”

Sherlock let out a despairing noise. “If you were me.”

Greg gave him an odd, smirking look. “Same answer,” he said.

John didn't have to see Sherlock's face to know he was glaring at Greg. After a moment, he turned back to John. “You'll have to decide then,” he declared. “Pick someone.”

John sighed and looked down at the crowd again. “I don't know,” he said. Sherlock continued to stare at him and John could tell he wasn't going to get out of this one. “Him?” He pointed at a tall man in a well-fitted blue shirt.

Sherlock gave him the briefest of glances. “I've had him,” he said. “Try again.”

John rolled his eyes but obligingly tried again. “Him?” he suggested, pointing at a dark-haired man who was ordering shots at the bar.

“I've had him too,” said Sherlock. “Really, haven't you been paying any attention?”

“Not really, no,” said John. He glanced around again. “Him?”

Sherlock looked over. “He's married to him,” he said. “I told you, I don't do infidelity.”

“Pick for yourself then,” said John. “Or don't – this isn't actually a cattle market, you know.”

“No, keep trying,” said Sherlock. “It's interesting to see your choices. Do you realise you've picked three very similar-looking men?”

John looked back at the three men and realised they were all tall, skinny brunettes. He scowled to himself at the thought that he was showing his hand. “Fine then,” he said, and looked around at the dance floor one last time. A man with bleached blond hair was climbing up onto one of the podiums, where he started to dance as if he was having an epileptic seizure. “Him,” said John.

Sherlock looked at him, then tilted his head to one side. “He looks as if he's in pain,” he said.

“You never said you wanted a good dancer,” countered John.

“No, no, it's fine,” said Sherlock, still watching the man. “He'll do.”

“I'm sure he'll be over-joyed to hear that,” said Greg.

“I expect he will be,” said Sherlock without a trace of irony. He looked away from the man for long enough to clap a hand to John's shoulder, then turned and disappeared.

John moved along the railing until he was next to Greg. “It's really getting to something when he's too lazy to even pick his next shag,” he said.

“I'm not sure that was about laziness,” said Greg cryptically, but refused to explain himself any further. John gave up on the whole thing in favour of going off to dance.

 

****

 

The blond man came home with them. After a brief conversation with him, Sherlock had come to join John and Greg dancing, and stayed with them all night. Having chosen his man, his attention was on actually dancing rather than looking around, and John tried not to let himself enjoy it too much. When the lights went up and they reluctantly left the dance floor to go and find a taxi home, the blond man was waiting for them by the door.

Sherlock went over to him, slid an arm around his waist and leaned in to say something low into his ear. John looked away and caught Greg looking at him.

John shrugged and gave him a rueful look. “I told you everything was back to normal.”

For once he managed to win the fight with Greg over who got to sit in the front seat of the taxi, although he didn't think Greg was trying as hard as he usually did. Sherlock was already completely distracted with Blondie, snogging him as if the world would end if they parted lips for a moment, his hands buried under his shirt. John kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road and tried very hard not to flash back to when it had been him making breathless noises under Sherlock's hands.

There was a particularly loud moan from Blondie just after they'd let Greg out at his flat, and John winced. “Sorry about this,” he said to the driver.

The driver shrugged. “Had worse,” she said. “At least they're managing to keep their hands above the waist, and their clothes on. Not that I'd really complain if they decided to give me a free show.”

Sherlock pulled away from Blondie, ignoring his whimper of protest. “I can take my shirt off if you'd like,” he said.

The driver gave him a grin in the rear-view mirror. “That's all right, love,” she said. “You're a bit skinny for me.”

Sherlock looked scandalised.

John let out a laugh. “I've told you you need to eat more,” he said.

“Big muscles and a chest like a barrel,” said the driver. “That's what I like.” She pulled up outside 221. “Here we are. You can take it inside now.”

John found the money for her while Sherlock and Blondie clambered out of the taxi. He had to open the front door as well, because Sherlock was too distracted with pressing Blondie up against the wall and attempting to suck his tonsils out.

“Come on,” said John once he had the door open. “Get inside before the neighbours start complaining.”

“They'd be more likely to applaud,” said Sherlock, but he graciously pulled far enough away from Blondie to take him upstairs. John followed them up, watching Sherlock's hand on Blondie's waist and telling himself that this didn't feel any worse than it used to before he'd known what it was like to be the one on the receiving end of Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock started to pull Blondie towards his bedroom and John ducked past to get to the stairs up to his own room.

“John,” said Sherlock, just as John was starting up them. John paused and looked back at him.

Sherlock was looking at him with odd frown, but after a moment it disappeared. “Good night,” he said.

“That'll depend on how noisy you two are,” said John.

“We'll keep it down,” said Sherlock. “I-” he hesitated for a moment, then set his chin. “I wouldn't want to upset you,” he said.

John stared at him for a moment, non-plussed. Sherlock had never seemed to care about upsetting him before. Unless he meant- John felt his jaw clench. Well, of course he knew that John was in love with him – only an idiot wouldn't have noticed that, especially after last week, and Sherlock was anything but an idiot. He'd probably known for ages. Jim had definitely thought he had.

Still, caring about whether or not his one-night-stands affected John was new. John wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing – he'd got this far by spending as much time as he could pretending that his feelings didn't exist. If Sherlock was going to start referring to them, however obliquely, that was going to get difficult.

“Just keep the screams of passion to a minimum,” he said in the end.

Sherlock nodded, then turned to Blondie, tipped his head to one side in a considering manner and asked, “How do you feel about gags?” Blondie's eyes went wide.

“Right,” said John, wanting nothing more than to be on the opposite side of London right now. “Have fun.”

He went upstairs, shut his door and collapsed onto his bed, burying his head in his pillow so that he could let out a moan of frustration. He was going to have to learn how to get through this kind of thing better than that.

 

****

 

They went out again the next night but John used Greg's absence and his mainly-healed injuries as an excuse to leave early, abandoning Sherlock on the dance floor surrounded by an ever-expanding crowd of men. He didn't seem particularly interested in choosing one, not when he could work on them all simultaneously, spending a few minutes dancing with each one before he shook his head with annoyance and moved on to the next. John was more than happy to get away from the spectacle.

He texted Greg on his way home, asking how the dinner with Mycroft was going.

 _He brought an agenda,_ came the reply. _Good thing Sherlock told me to already know what I wanted before I spoke to him. It's going well, though. Think it's going to work out._

 _Fingers crossed for you, mate,_ John sent back.

He went straight up to bed when he got in with the sole intention of getting to sleep before Sherlock got home. With the help of a sleeping pill, he managed to make it.

The next morning, there was a blanket-covered lump on the floor of the sitting room as well as the usual one on the sofa. John regarded them both for a moment, then carefully blocked out all the mental images that had risen up in his mind and went to make tea.

 

****

 

Later that day, after Sherlock had emerged from his room, discovered the two men still in the sitting room and thrown them out with an annoyed, “Leave! I'm done with you now,” John got a text from Greg.

_Discussion with Mycroft went well. Sex went even better. Moving in with him in a couple of weeks. How're things with Sherlock?_

“Mycroft and Greg are moving in together,” John told Sherlock.

Sherlock had been carrying a stack of books towards his room, and he dropped the whole pile on the floor in order to turn and stare in horror at John instead. John mentally applauded him for the melodrama. “No,” he said. “I won't allow it.”

“I don't think you get a say in it,” said John. “And it's mostly your fault, anyway. You're the one who gave Greg advice on how to deal with Mycroft.”

Sherlock let out an anguished noise and disappeared into his bedroom, abandoning the books on the floor.

John texted Greg back. _He's having threesomes and throwing tantrums. Same as always._

Sherlock got over his tantrum in time for Doctor Who, although he was still a bit sulky when he threw himself onto the sofa, next to where John was already sitting. John hoped like hell there wasn't going to be a repeat of last week's sprawling incident, but Sherlock managed to keep himself as much to his own half of the sofa as he was really capable of.

After a couple of episodes, he suddenly said, out of nowhere, “I never should have taken him to the Diogenes.”

“Please tell me you're not blaming yourself for Greg being happy,” said John.

Sherlock let out a snort, but didn't deny it. A few minutes passed while they both watched Tegan running through a quarry, and then he added, “I met Jim in the Diogenes.”

John had forgotten that. “Well,” he said after a pause, “you'd have probably met him eventually somewhere else. He went to all the same places we go, after all.”

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. “Because we go to them,” he said. “He found me through my blog. I've traced some of the comments on my forum to him, from even before that night. He knew exactly where to find me.”

“Oh,” said John. There were another few minutes of silence as he stared at the TV screen, but he wasn't seeing the Doctor any more. He was thinking about how deranged someone would have to be to become that obsessed with someone just from reading their blog and about how Jim had sounded when he was talking about Sherlock, as if he knew him better than anyone else ever would. “Christ,” he said eventually, and he couldn't keep his voice from shaking.

Sherlock glanced at him and put a hand on John's thigh, squeezing it. “He's locked up now.”

John nodded, shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. It was over, and no matter how messed up Jim was, he wouldn't be bothering them again. Not from prison.

Sherlock left his hand where it was for the rest of the episode, but John didn't object to it. It felt nice to have something anchoring him to the present rather than letting his mind drift off to places he really didn't want to revisit. At the end of the night, John picked it up and moved it back to Sherlock's own leg before standing up.

“Bedtime,” he said. “I'll see you in the morning – I'm on the late shift tomorrow.”

Sherlock was staring at his own hand as if not sure what to make of it. John wondered if he'd forgotten that he'd put it on John's leg in the first place. “I know,” he said, sounding distracted. “I'll be up for tea.”

“And breakfast?” asked John without any hope. Sherlock just snorted. “Right,” said John. “Well, good night.”

“Night,” said Sherlock, reaching for the nearest laptop, which was John's but he'd given up that fight a very long time ago. He hoped that Sherlock wasn't going to spend all night coming up with some elaborate plan to keep Greg from moving in with Mycroft, and took himself off to bed.

 

****

 

The post was still waiting on the mat when John came home from work a couple of days later. He picked it up and tucked it with the newspaper he'd bought on his way home.

“Sherlock, is it really too difficult for you to go downstairs and pick up the post?” he asked as he went into the sitting room.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He was at the kitchen table, which was covered in a wide array of chemical equipment and a large beaker of what looked uncomfortably like blood. John decided not to comment on it.

He flicked through the post instead. “Oh god, it's all bills,” he said. “Oh wait, no, this one is junk. Do we want home insurance from a talking car? Probably not.”

Sherlock ignored John entirely, concentrating on a bubbling test tube filled with a mysterious blue liquid, into which he carefully added a drop of the hopefully-not-blood substance. The bubbling liquid turned purple. “Ah,” said Sherlock with interest.

“If I make tea around this experiment, am I going to end up regretting it?” asked John, giving up on interesting Sherlock in anything as mundane as the post.

“Unlikely,” said Sherlock. “Not unless you decide to fill the kettle with blood instead of water.”

John paused in the action of filling the kettle and turned back to stare at him. “It really is blood?” he asked. “Sherlock! Where did you get that much blood from? And why?”

“The butcher,” said Sherlock, stirring another test tube and squinting at it. “It's not human, no need to worry.”

“Oh, well, that makes it all fine then,” said John. First books about corpses and now experiments involving blood. “Oh god,” he said, “you're not planning a murder, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock, but there was a note in his voice that John didn't want to examine too closely. He thought about the ways in which blood and sex might overlap, then stopped the train of thought before it could go too far. The key to living peaceably with Sherlock was to just not ask, sometimes.

“Good,” he said, turning back to the tea-making. “Because although I'm pretty lenient as flatmates go, I draw the line at living with a killer.”

“Noted,” said Sherlock.

John set his cup of tea next to his elbow, then took his own into the sitting room, where he settled down with the newspaper. “There's been another suicide just like that one Greg was investigating the other day,” he reported. “I suppose he'll be looking into this one as well.”

“He is,” Sherlock said. “I read about it online earlier. They're not suicides, you know, they're obviously murders.” That took John aback a bit. The idea of Sherlock reading actual news online, as opposed to whatever Attitude and After-Elton.com had to say, was a bit out of character. He must have had a really boring day – no wonder he was resorting to blood experiments.

“It says there's no proof of that yet,” said John, reading the rest of the article.

“That's because the police are idiots.”

“Ah, of course,” said John, and decided to let the conversation go. He'd heard enough of Sherlock's rants about idiots of various different types. Having him focus on the police instead of his usual targets wouldn't be enough to provide any real novelty.

A few minutes later, Sherlock abandoned his experiment and brought his tea out to the sitting room. He sat down in his chair, fixed John with a look that he could feel even as he read the paper, and said in an intense voice, “How was your day?”

John lowered the paper and stared at him. “What?”

Sherlock frowned. “How was your day?” he repeated, giving the words a slightly different emphasis, as if he thought he'd just said them wrong.

“Sherlock,” said John, “we've lived together for nearly five years now and you have never once asked me that.”

“Haven't I?” Sherlock replied.

“You know you haven't,” said John. “You hate small talk. What's going on?”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, cradling his tea. “Does something have to be going on?”

“Answering a question with a question isn't the most subtle way to avoid answering,” said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John felt unaccountably relieved at the normalness of the gesture. He wasn't sure how to cope with a Sherlock who asked after his day, but he knew all there was to know about one who was annoyed by both John and the whole world.

“Maybe I just wanted to know how your day was,” he said.

John laughed. “You expect me to believe you care about the three cases of flu and the one suspected case of IBS I diagnosed today?”

“You missed the small child with tonsillitis out,” said Sherlock.

“How did you-” started John, then he shook his head and didn't bother finishing the question. “No, seriously Sherlock, what do you really want to know?”

“I was just trying to be friendly,” said Sherlock. “My research indicates that asking after someone's day is considered polite. If I'd known it would get this reaction, I wouldn't have bothered.” He actually sounded as if he was a bit offended by John's reaction, and John immediately felt bad. After all, signs of normal social interaction from Sherlock should be encouraged.

“Sorry,” he said. “It just came a bit out of nowhere. My day was fine, thank you, Sherlock. How was yours?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment then, to John's relief, let his apparent annoyance go. “It was fine,” he said, then considered for a moment. “I saw Molly whilst I was getting that blood. She showed the distinct signs of having been involved in a rather vigorous threesome this morning, so I'm guessing things are still going well with Jacob and Chris.”

“That probably counts as too much information,” said John. “Still, it's good she's happy.”

Sherlock frowned. “I didn't give any details,” he said. “I could have told you precisely what positions they were all in-”

“No!” said John quickly. “Thanks, Sherlock, I think I'm good with ignorance on that one.”

“Yes, details of heterosexual sexual antics are never particularly appealing,” agreed Sherlock.

John laughed. “You know, sex with women isn't actually-”

“Stop!” said Sherlock, holding his hand up. “Stop right there, John. I won't listen to that kind of vile comment.”

John couldn't stop himself from cracking up at that and after a moment, Sherlock joined in.

After Sherlock had finished his tea, he headed back to his experiment and John picked up the paper again. He let himself enjoy the quiet domesticity of it, the background chinks of glass equipment and Sherlock's occasional quiet exclamations gently making his shoulders relax.

It was another ten minutes or so before he really thought about what Sherlock had said earlier. _“I was just trying to be friendly. My research indicates that asking after someone's day is considered polite.”_ What research? And since when did Sherlock care about being polite, or friendly?

“Sherlock,” he said after contemplating it for another few minutes, trying to trace Sherlock's thought processes backwards to why he might have felt being polite and friendly to John was necessary.

“Hmmm?” asked Sherlock in response, clearly still engrossed in his experiment.

John thought for a moment then said, “You know you don't have to bother with conventions with me, right? I'm fine with you just being you. Even when that's not anything like most other people are.”

There was a long silence, then Sherlock cleared his throat. “I'm aware of that, John,” he said, but there was a note in his voice that made John glad he'd given him a reminder.

 

****

 

Sherlock was somewhere ahead, crying out in pain. John ran down the tunnels, desperately trying to find him, but every time he turned a corner, he was met by nothing but more tunnel, stretching endlessly away without even doors to break the monotony of the blank walls.

The pitch of Sherlock's cries went up and they were joined by the sound of Jim laughing. John's panic escalated. He had to find Sherlock, had to get to him before it was too late, but there was nothing but tunnels and more tunnels and he was running out of time.

At last he turned a corner to find a new sight; a corridor lined with doors, and Sherlock's voice sounding both clearer and closer. He had to be behind one of the doors. John started down the corridor, opening the doors as he went, finding the room he'd had in his second year at university, the cleaning cupboard at Barts, his first boyfriend's sitting room; all of them empty and giving no clue as to where Sherlock might be.

“John!” echoed Sherlock's voice and John sped up, desperation eating at his insides. Harry's kitchen, the hospital room that their mother had died in, then the toilets at The Criterion, which was the first room that wasn't empty. Instead, it was filled with writhing couples, engaged in every sexual act that John had ever heard of. He paused for a moment, shocked, but he could hear Sherlock's voice even louder now, and he realised that he was in there somewhere. He pushed inside, past a man being given what looked to be a revelatory blowjob, ignoring the moans and the sounds of flesh moving together as he made his way to the door out into the main club.

The club was deserted and dark. John walked towards the dance floor where he could see a light, and then stopped in horror when he got close enough to see what it was illuminating. A single spotlight was shining down on the very centre of the dance floor, onto the metal table from Jim's torture room. Sherlock was strapped to it, naked and bleeding, and Jim was stood over him, knife in hand. He looked up at John with a grin.

“Just in time for the endgame, Johnny!” he said, and brought the knife down with a sudden movement.

John's shout echoed around the club and then there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him into wakefulness.

He sat up with a start, breathing as if he'd run a race. “Oh, Christ,” he choked.

Sherlock's hand clutched at his shoulder. “John,” he said. “It was just a dream. You're safe.”

John shook his head, grabbing for Sherlock's arm and clinging on. “Are you?” he asked, still trying to force away the image of the knife stabbing into Sherlock's blood-stained body.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. He put his other hand on John's neck and John drew in another deep breath, letting reality seep in and overlay the nightmare. His bedroom was dark, but the light shining through the door from downstairs was enough to illuminate Sherlock's expression. Christ, it really must have been bad if Sherlock felt he had to come up and wake him.

He became aware of just how close he and Sherlock were and for a moment was tempted to just lean forward and bury his head into Sherlock's shoulder. He eased back instead, trying to rebuild his self-control.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't wake you, did I?”

Sherlock shook his head, letting go of John so that he could sit back against the headboard. “No.”

“Right, good,” said John. A thought occurred to him. “There isn't some poor bloke tied to your bed tonight, is there?”

Sherlock gave him a startled look, then his face cracked into a smile. “No, not tonight,” he said. “I was reading.”

“Right, good,” said John. “Sorry to have interrupted you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was probably due a break,” he said, which was a ridiculous statement. Sherlock didn't do breaks. “Tea?” he suggested.

“Yes, please,” said John, wondering how it was that twice could begin to feel like a habit when it came to being woken from a nightmare and offered tea by Sherlock.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table and watched as John made the tea for several minutes before he cleared his throat and stated, “I was the one being hurt in your dream.”

John felt himself tense. “Yes,” he acknowledged, not bothering to ask how Sherlock knew that. No doubt his state upon first waking up had made it obvious, or perhaps he said something whilst still sleeping.

There was a pause from Sherlock, then he said, “I would have thought it would be you being hurt. That's what actually happened, after all.”

John let out a short sigh. “The sub-conscious doesn't work like that,” he pointed out. “Especially not mine. It always goes for the very worst situation possible.”

“Does it,” said Sherlock, but it wasn't a question, and John decided to ignore it in favour of putting a cup of tea in front of him. Sherlock took it and left the subject alone, to John's relief. That he counted Sherlock being hurt as far worse than being hurt himself had to be obvious to quite a few people, but he didn't want to have to actually discuss it.

 

****

 

That Thursday, John got a text between one patient and the next.

_We've going to dinner tonight. SH._

_Why?_ he texted back.

 _No reason._ came the reply a minute later. _Don't worry about money – my treat. Just get home on time. SH_

Oh, that was very worrying. _What have you done?_ John sent back. _Please tell me the flat is in one piece._

_Have done nothing. Flat is fine. It's just dinner, stop worrying. SH._

John's next patient came through before he could respond, but he spent the rest of the afternoon in a mild state of anxiety, trying to list all the things that Sherlock might count as serious enough to warrant buying John dinner as an apology.

When he got home, his fears were not allayed. The flat did, indeed, all seem to be in one piece and much as he had left it when he went to work, but Sherlock was in a weird, twitchy mood. He was sitting on the sofa, apparently not doing anything other than staring at the wall, but he jumped up when John came in.

“On time!” he announced. “Excellent! Our reservation is at seven – you've got time to change.”

“Reservation?” repeated John. When did they ever go to the kind of restaurant that needed a reservation? “What's this all about, Sherlock?”

“Why does dinner have to be about anything?” asked Sherlock. “Go and at least change your shirt, John, please. I don't want to spend the evening being visually assaulted by that thing.”

John glanced down at himself. “What's wrong with it?” he asked.

“The fact that you even have to ask makes fashion designers all over the world weep,” Sherlock informed him.

John scowled at him and stomped upstairs to change. It wasn't until he was halfway into another shirt that he realised how completely he'd been distracted from finding out what was going on. Well, if Sherlock was that determined not to let John know, no amount of questioning would yield any results. John would just have to go along with it and hope that he found out sooner rather than later.

 

****

 

The restaurant Sherlock directed the taxi to was far fancier than anywhere John would normally have ventured, but not so much so that he felt out-of-place.

“This is nice,” he said suspiciously after they'd been sat down with menus.

“Yes, it's good to have a change now and then,” said Sherlock in a bland voice. “Their specials look good.”

John sighed and looked down at the menu. Well, if Sherlock was paying, he should at least take advantage. What was the most expensive thing?

Sherlock grew increasingly distracted and fidgety throughout the meal, switching between monologues about their fellow diners that rambled far more than his usual observations and long, tense silences during which he stared at John until John stared back or raised an eyebrow at him, at which point he'd immediately pretend he hadn't been looking at all.

John didn't break until after their mains had been cleared, when Sherlock leaned slightly forward to say, “John,” in a serious voice, then broke his gaze away to add, “I suspect the sommelier is stealing wine. Should we inform management, do you think, or is one or two bottles a month little enough not to matter?”

It was far too obvious that wasn't what he'd been going to say – he never asked John's opinion on what he should do, he just went and did it, usually without even telling John what it was going to be, and he certainly didn't care whether or not the sommelier was taking home whole crates every night.

“All right,” said John, sitting back with a sigh. “What is it?”

Sherlock gave him a completely unconvincing surprised look. “What's what?”

“You've clearly got something you want to say,” said John. “I'd say that you really had done something awful to the flat and were trying to work out how to confess if you were anyone else, but you never actually feel bad about that sort of thing.”

“I felt a bit bad about the jelly incident,” said Sherlock.

John snorted. “You felt bad about my reaction to the jelly incident,” he corrected.

“It did seem a little extreme.”

“Sherlock,” said John, wearily wondering how many times he'd have to have this kind of conversation with him. “You filled the bath with jelly, had sex in it, then left the mess for me to find when I came down for my shower the next morning. You're lucky all you got was a bucket of it over your head.”

“It got in my hair,” said Sherlock darkly, as if such a thing was a punishment that no crime would ever warrant.

John opened his mouth to point out that Sherlock must have got it in his hair whilst having sex in it as well, and then shut it again when he realised how effectively Sherlock had managed to sidetrack him. Time to refocus. “This is beside the point,” he said instead. “What's going on?”

Sherlock's eyes roamed around the room for a moment as if he was seeking a distraction, then he sat forward and rested his arms on the table between them. “I do have an announcement,” he said.

That sounded vaguely ominous. John felt a trickle of unease down his spine. “What is it?”

“I'm changing careers,” said Sherlock.

John stared at him for several long moments, trying to picture Sherlock doing anything other than what he did. “To what?” he asked. “I can't imagine that there are many jobs that require the same skills as a seduction consultant. Other than the obvious, but I can't really see you as a rentboy, somehow.”

“It's not really in the same field,” said Sherlock, “although the skills are more similar than you might imagine.” John tried to imagine what other job might need the ability to know a man's kinks just by looking at his hands and drew a blank. “John,” continued Sherlock, “I just wanted to reassure you that I will be able to continue paying the rent-”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” said John, cutting him off. “My salary should be more than enough for a bit, and if the worst comes to the worst, I'm sure we could blackmail Mycroft for it somehow. Just- are you sure about this? I thought you loved your job – you did invent it, after all.”

“I did love it,” acknowledged Sherlock, “but it has grown a little stale. Besides, there's something I very much want that it is keeping me from. And,” he added with a smug smile, “I am inventing my new career as well.”

“Of course you are,” said John. “What is it, then?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock said with relish. “Since I've started paying attention to what Greg actually does, I've become very aware of just how often the police are completely out of their depth. I'm going to set up so that they can come and ask for my advice. You know I could solve these things much quicker than those idiots – they just don't _observe_ , John, it's painful.”

John stared at him. “You're going to solve crimes?” he asked. Suddenly the last couple of weeks started to make sense. Sherlock hadn't been planning a murder after all. Thank God for that.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I've spoken to Greg, and he has agreed to help me and bring me any cases that seem to be particularly tricky. I'm sure once the other DIs see how effective I am, they'll all follow.”

John thought about it, about Sherlock snooping around crime scenes and drawing all sorts of impossible conclusions just from the victim's fingernails, the way he did in clubs. “That's brilliant,” he said. “You're going to be amazing.”

Sherlock beamed. “Thank you, John,” he said. “I hoped you'd see it like that. You will help me on occasion, if I need a medical opinion?”

“Of course,” said John. “And with anything else you might need. It sounds far more worthwhile than seduction consulting.”

Sherlock frowned at that. “Seduction consulting is important too,” he said. “I have helped lots of people with my techniques, you know, and it was all important research.”

“Right,” said John. “The jelly one included, I suppose?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “That experiment yielded the results that a larger bathtub is needed, but unfortunately the only person I know with one that might be big enough is Mycroft.” He made a face.

John grinned. “Maybe you could ask him and Greg to repeat the experiment for you?” he suggested.

Sherlock looked horrified. “Why would you say that?” he asked. “Do you want to cause me some sort of brain dysfunction?”

John couldn't stop himself from laughing at the look on Sherlock's face, and had to put down his glass to avoid spilling his drink. When he looked at Sherlock again, his face had morphed into a warm, almost indulgent smile. “I'm sorry,” said John, between giggles. “It's just, I'm picturing it, and Mycroft's got an umbrella in there with them.”

That made Sherlock begin to laugh as well. For good few minutes, they just giggled together like idiots, then John managed to pull himself together. His stomach hurt a bit from laughing so hard and he thought, as he took a sip of his wine, that as long as he and Sherlock could still laugh together like that, there was no need to care what jobs either of them had.

“John,” said Sherlock in a careful, serious voice and John looked up at him to see that his face had sobered. “There was something else.”

“Oh?” asked John, putting his drink back down and hoping he didn't sound as nervous as he suddenly felt. Something about the tone of Sherlock's voice made him think that this was the real reason that he had arranged this dinner.

“You see, although there are several reasons for my decision to change careers – it has been losing my interest as I have increasingly tapped out the opportunities that seduction consulting represents, and crime-solving appears to be fascinating in ways I could not have foreseen – there is a major one that has prompted it.” He was looking down at the table rather than at John, as if fascinated by the placement of his remaining cutlery. He touched his spoon, moving it a millimetre back into line with his dessert fork. “Something that I could not pursue without making changes to my lifestyle.”

“Oh?” asked John. The roof of his mouth was dry, although he wasn't sure why. “What's that?”

Sherlock finally looked up at him. “You, John.”

John felt his eyes pop out. “What?” he managed in a strangled voice.

Sherlock moved his spoon again. “Our encounter two weeks ago did not manage to remove the thoughts of you from my mind,” he said, speaking too fast. “In fact, if anything, they strengthened after that. I have found myself wanting to repeat every experiment I've ever run, but with you as the subject, because knowing your reactions as opposed to anyone else's seems to be the most important thing to me right now. In addition, I found myself craving various other activities that would necessitate us being involved in a relationship.”

“A relationship?” repeated John, wondering if he should be looking for hidden cameras, or checking that Sherlock hadn't been brainwashed or something. “You hate even the idea of those.”

“I used to,” corrected Sherlock. “After some research, I have come to the conclusion that I would very much like to be in one with you. And that we are already extremely close to being in one anyway. I have followed Greg's advice and I have thought about what I want, and what you want, and the ways that those would require compromise, and I am positive that we could make it work without ruining our friendship.”

John blinked at him, trying to get his brain to work past the shock. Sherlock wanted a relationship, and with him, of all people?

Sherlock's fingers tightened around his spoon. “You said that you were looking for someone who liked you, who wasn't going to bore you, and who could make you laugh. I can do all those things.”

“I'm never bored,” agreed John, his mind still reeling.

“You see?” said Sherlock. “I care about you, you care about me, and we both enjoy spending as much time as possible together – well, when you're not meeting up with Greg to interrogate him about his relationship problems. It would be perfect – or as close as anything gets, anyway. And with my new career, I wouldn't be sleeping with anyone else. John,” his voice went rough on John's name, then he cleared his throat to finished his sentence. “We would be incredible – just think of the sex! You have to say yes.”

It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock was actually trying to talk him into it. The very idea of having to be persuaded to have a relationship with this mad, beautiful, amazing man who he'd been in love with since only a few weeks after he met him was so insane that John found himself choking out a laugh before he could say anything. Sherlock's knuckles grew white around the spoon.

John put his hand out to close over Sherlock's. “You idiot,” he said. “Of course I'm saying yes.”

Sherlock let out a long breath and all the tension melted out of him. He twisted his hand, dropping the spoon so that he could cling to John's fingers, and his face lit up with a beaming smile. “Good,” he said. “That's- that's very good.”

They grinned at each other for what should have been an unbearably cheesy amount of time, until there was a politely-cleared throat next to them.

“Would you like to see a dessert menu?” asked the waiter.

“No,” said Sherlock without looking away from John's face. “We'll have the bill, please. We're going to go and have sex now.”

John choked, his face going red. “Sherlock!” he hissed.

“Very good, sir,” said the waiter, failing to suppress a smile. “I'll just get your bill, then.”

He left, and John kicked Sherlock under the table. “Don't tell people that!”

Sherlock gave him a puzzled frown. “Why not?” he asked. “Shouldn't I get to show off?”

John rolled his eyes, but was unable to keep the smile off his face. Sherlock wanted to have sex with him! Again! And he wanted to show off about it – this had to be some sort of dream.

Sherlock only let go of John's hand for the briefest amount of time needed to enter his PIN in the card machine, then recaptured it as they left the restaurant, pulling John in so close that their shoulders nudged together as they walked. John thought about his possessive sprawling as they watched Doctor Who and decided that he might have to get used to being touched rather a lot. He rather thought that he'd be okay with it.

Sherlock walked straight out into the road, tugging John behind him and raising one hand to hail a taxi, but John wasn't letting him get away that easily. He pulled him back, relishing how easy it was to redirect Sherlock's attention to him, and took hold of his other hand as well to keep him close. “Don't you think you're missing out part of the process?” he asked.

Sherlock looked blank for a moment, and John put his hand on the back of his neck and pulled his mouth down so that he could kiss him. A trickle of nervous panic went down his spine as he did so. He'd spent so many years stopping himself from doing just this that it seemed insane to just let go and do it, right there in public. Sherlock had said he wanted a relationship though, and John had never started a relationship that hadn't been sealed with a kiss.

“Ah,” breathed Sherlock against John's lips, then he kissed him again, pressing their bodies so closely together that John could feel his warmth burning through their clothes. “Let's go home,” Sherlock murmured. “I want to take you to bed.”

John smiled. “Sounds good to me,” he said, and let Sherlock go so that he could hail a taxi.

A thought struck him as Sherlock was giving the driver their address. “When you said you wanted to repeat _all_ your experiments with me...” he started.

“Don't worry,” said Sherlock. “I shall omit those that you wouldn't find pleasant. We have more than enough to be going on with, anyway. I want to start with the lube comparisons.”

Mounted above Sherlock's bed was what John had at first taken to be a rather large spice rack but which, on closer inspection, had turned out to be a lube rack, filled with every variety of lube available in London, as well as a few that Sherlock must have ordered from abroad. He'd told John that one of his first series of experiments had been discovering which lube was best suited to which occasion, and that it had taken him nearly six months to gain all the data for it.

“And, of course,” he'd added then, “There are new varieties available all the time. It's a constantly running experiment – the best kind.”

“So, that's where we starting tonight?” John asked now.

“It can wait,” said Sherlock. “Tonight I just want to touch you.” He moved along the seat until he was pressed up against John and kissed him again. John heard himself make a surprised, happy noise, and just gave in to it.

 

****

 

The next morning, John woke up with Sherlock draped across his chest and had to take a few moments to remind himself that he wasn't having an unusually good dream. This had actually happened. Sherlock had actually given up his job in order to be with John, and then spent hours demonstrating just how pleased he was to do so, using several of the tricks he learnt over the years.

Sherlock made a sleepy sound into John's neck, huffing air against his skin, and John relaxed into it, bringing one hand up to rest on Sherlock's shoulder blade. That was apparently enough to calm Sherlock back into sleep fully, which made John grin to himself. He could get used to a snuggly, tactile Sherlock slumped over him like this.

Last night, after Sherlock had done just about everything he could to blow John's mind and John had done his best to reciprocate, they'd lain quietly together, listening to the sounds of London passing outside. Sherlock had traced a finger down the line of John's breast bone and said, “You're the only person I can sleep with, you know.”

John let out a huff of amusement. “The others don't even count as people now?”

“Don't be an idiot,” Sherlock replied, and how typical that he'd still be comfortable insulting John, even in that moment. “I said _sleep_ with. That first night, when I fell asleep here after your nightmare, that was the first time I was able to sleep in the same room as someone else since I was twelve. I suppose I should have known then what it meant.”

Looking at the top of Sherlock's sleeping head now, John wondered just how he'd managed to have this. Of all the many, many men in London that Sherlock had had sex with, how was it that he was the one that Sherlock wanted something more with?

His phone beeped quietly on the bedside table and reached out for it, hoping it hadn't woken Sherlock.

The message was from Greg.

_Won't be out tonight, got caught up with this suicide business. Media is going nuts. We on for tomorrow, though? Going to drag Mycroft out – don't tell Sherlock. Giving him time to prepare a tantrum is never a good idea._

“Tell him to fuck off,” mumbled Sherlock into John's skin.

“Good morning,” said John, smoothing his hand over Sherlock's back. Sherlock made a grumpy noise and nestled in even closer, clearly not interested in being awake yet. “You're aware that I have to go to work in a bit, right?”

Sherlock made a despairing noise. “Call in sick. I want to stay in bed with you all day.”

John couldn't remember ever having been given a better offer, but the surgery was short-staffed enough as it was at the moment. “I can't,” he said. “The problem with working with doctors is that they can tell when you're faking it.”

“So?” said Sherlock, and his hand started to drift downwards in a manner that was far too tempting.

“So it's my job, and it's important,” said John as firmly as he could. He looked at his phone, still clutched in his hand.

“Are we going out tonight?” he asked, starting his reply to Greg.

“Not if you're going to be off somewhere else all day,” said Sherlock. “I'll want to have a lot of sex with you when you get home. No time for clubbing.”

Oh god, John was going to spend the whole day at work trapped in sexual expectation. “Does that go for tomorrow as well?”

Sherlock hesitated. “No,” he said. “Not if you don't insist on disappearing tomorrow day as well. I'll want to dance by then. I enjoy dancing with you.”

John felt himself smile and thought it was probably a good thing that Sherlock couldn't see the no doubt incredibly dopey look on his face right then.

 _We're not going out tonight either,_ he sent Greg. _Having sex with Sherlock instead. Will be out tomorrow – I'll tell you about it then. 9 at Angelo's._

There was a tickling sensation on John's neck, and he realised that Sherlock was licking him, running his tongue gently up the line of his neck. John dropped the phone back on the bedside table and pulled his head up so that he could kiss him.

“If you don't sleep with people,” he said, “then I suppose you've never had just-awake morning sex?”

“Not without other factors involved,” said Sherlock, looking down at John with a look that was morphing from sleepy fondness to excitement at the idea of a new form of sex. “I should think it's definitely time to fix that.”

John grinned. “Excellent,” he said, and pulled him down for another kiss. His phone beeped with another message, but he ignored it in favour of pulling Sherlock's body into a better alignment with his.

 

****

 

He didn't check his phone until after he'd reluctantly pulled himself away from Sherlock to have a shower. When he came back to his room to get dressed, he found Sherlock still in his bed, apparently content to stay there indefinitely. The sight made something in John's chest threaten to crack open, and he wondered how he was going to cope with this sort of thing happening every day. He picked up his phone mainly to distract himself from the urge to just crawl back in next to Sherlock, work be damned.

_Oh, he finally did it then. Look forward to seeing you both. Have a good day. ;-)_

John stared at the emoticon for a moment, then turned to frown at Sherlock. “What does Greg mean by 'he finally did it then'?”

Sherlock, who was lying with his arms cushioning his head, looking more relaxed than John had ever seen him, cracked one eye open. “He almost certainly guessed what my intentions were from some of the things I asked him,” he said.

John raised an eyebrow. “Your intentions?” he repeated.

Sherlock let out a feigned sigh. “To proposition you, obviously,” he said.

“Oh, obviously,” said John, then couldn't hold in the laugh of delight at just the idea of it. _Jesus,_ he thought. _I've cracked. Sex has broken my brain._ Well, he hadn't needed it much, and this was so much better. He leant over the bed and gave Sherlock a kiss goodbye that Sherlock quickly turned a lot more thorough that John had intended.

“I've got to go,” he said when he'd finally made himself pull away. “I'll see you tonight.”

“I'll be waiting,” said Sherlock.

John gave him one more quick kiss, then got the hell out before his will broke and he just spent the whole day having sex with Sherlock.

 

****

 

When he came home from work, having suffered a day of agonising anticipation combined with gentle teasing from Sarah over the lovebites that Sherlock had peppered him with - _I need to see how your neck reacts to different pressures, and how that affects your arousal, John, just hold still_ \- there were six large binbags in the hall, practically blocking the door. For a moment John was terrified that Sherlock had decided to go through John's wardrobe and throw away everything he hated, which would be basically every piece of clothing that John owned except his old Army uniform. Sherlock approved of that, for obvious reasons. _Oh John,_ he'd purred when he'd first seen it, years ago now. _This has definite possibilities._ John had had to make him promise never to touch it.

John ran up the stairs to the flat, calling out Sherlock's name. “What's all this? Please tell me you haven't- oh.”

Opening the door to the flat shocked him into silence. It wasn't so much that the flat was any less cluttered, it was that it was cluttered with completely different things. Somehow, in the course of one day, Sherlock had managed to clear out all his sex-related paraphernalia (almost all of it anyway, thought John, catching sight of a cock ring on the mantelpiece) and replace it all with a whole new lot of junk. His multiple copies of the Kama Sutra had been replaced by poison encyclopedias and criminology reports; the sex toys that had been scattered across the desk had been replaced by an assortment of knuckle dusters; and the stack of Attitude magazine had been replaced by criminology journals.

In the midst of it all, Sherlock was bent over his microscope, still working on his blood experiment. He looked up at John with a smile. “You're back!” he said.

“You got rid of all your sex stuff,” said John blankly, trying to wrap his head around it. Being told that Sherlock was taking up a new career was one thing, seeing the evidence of it spread all over their flat was quite another. He suddenly realised that this was really happening, that Sherlock was giving up all his sex experiments and seduction techniques in order to be with him.

“Not all of it,” said Sherlock. “I kept all the things I want to use on you – I just put them in my wardrobe.”

John stared at him. “You realise that that's tantamount to _tidying_?” he said.

Sherlock scowled. “Not at all. I just needed the space for other things. Look, John, look at this,” he darted across the room to the desk and pulled out a large map, which he unrolled. “It's a map of every major crime that's happened in London in the last century! I thought we could put it up somewhere.”

John looked at the map, which had handy diagrams to represent murders, thefts, kidnappings and so on, and couldn't stop himself from laughing. “I'm still not going to be able to bring anyone over without them thinking we're completely weirdos, am I?”

“Why would you want to bring anyone over?” asked Sherlock. “I'm already here.”

John looked around the room again, at the signs of Sherlock's enthusiasm spread over every surface. “Yes, you are,” he said, and held out a hand to him. “Come and kiss me.”

Sherlock dropped the map back on the desk and bounded over to do exactly that. Then he started to drag John towards his bedroom, announcing that he'd waited long enough and they were going to start the lube experiments now. John was more than happy to agree with that.

By the time it got dark, John was wondering if Sherlock would ever let him leave the bed. Not that he really had a problem with staying there indefinitely, revelling in getting to try out all the things he had spent the last two years fantasising about, but he was beginning to get hungry.

He sat up and groped for his phone, to see what the time was. Nearly nine, Christ, no wonder he was hungry.

Sherlock made an irritated noise and grabbed for John's wrist, tugging on it. “Lie down. A bit of recovery, and we can do that again.”

John put his phone aside and lay down, letting Sherlock wrap himself around him again. “I might need some food first,” he admitted.

Sherlock groaned. “Surely you had lunch?”

“Hours ago. And we've burnt rather a lot of calories off,” John pointed out. “I'm starving. I'll pop to the kitchen and make some sandwiches quickly.”

“Why on earth leave this bed before we have to?” asked Sherlock.

“You won't have to,” said John. “I'll be gone less than ten minutes, and then we can eat here, recover, and have sex again.”

Sherlock's arm tightened around him for a moment. “Wait a bit first,” he said.

John smiled, pulling him in closer. “Yeah, okay,” he said.

 

****

 

By the time Sherlock finally let John doze off, several hours later, John was completely wrung out and blissfully content in a way he couldn't ever remember being before. He slept for a few hours then woke up again to find Sherlock still beside him, sitting up with his laptop. John must have given some sign of being awake, because Sherlock glanced over at him and smiled.

“Okay?” he asked.

“More than,” said John, smiling back. Sherlock's long fingers were resting on the keyboard, still for the moment but John had spent too many hours watching him type not to know how quickly and beautifully, they could move over it if they wanted to. He reached out for Sherlock's wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it, and then to the palm of his hand.

Sherlock made a pleased noise. “What was that for?” he asked.

John smiled at the idea that there would have to be a specific reason for him to want to kiss Sherlock. “I always want to do that when you're typing,” he said. Or when he was playing his violin, or writing, or any of a whole number of other activities that made John fixate on his hands.

Sherlock grinned. “Now you can do it any time you like,” he said, then leant over to kiss John, as if to prove his point.

John laughed. In the middle of the night, when he was still half asleep and everything was lit by Sherlock's laptop screen, that was almost impossible to believe. After so many fantasies and daydreams about having Sherlock like this, the idea that he now did was going to take a while to sink in.

“What are you up to, anyway?” he asked rather than say any of that and look like an idiot. “Don't you ever sleep?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Sherlock. He looked back at the laptop screen. “I'm designing my new website. I'm thinking of calling it 'The Science Of Deduction'.”

“Deduction,” repeated John. “That sounds pretty good.”

Sherlock beamed at him. “Thank you. Once it's up and running, I shall be able to start taking cases.”

“What about your old site?” John asked. “You put a lot of work into that. You're not just going to delete it, are you? The Twink Army would be heartbroken.”

“I gave the passwords to Toby,” said Sherlock. “He's going to maintain it.”

“Oh, that's good,” said John. “I'd hate to think of all your knowledge being lost to the world.”

Sherlock gave him a narrow-eyed look, as if he wasn't sure if he was being mocked or not. “It won't be,” he said. “I'll be using it on you.”

That made John smile. “I should probably get rested up for that, then.” He snuggled back down, sliding one of his hands under the covers to rest against Sherlock's leg, just to feel him there. Sherlock put a hand on his head, smoothing his hair back, then went back to his website.

There was silence for a few minutes as John started to recapture sleep, then Sherlock paused his typing. “John,” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Mmmm?” hummed John, too almost-asleep to bother with words unless he had to.

“You don't mind, do you?” said Sherlock.

John made another inquiring sound.

“That I'm working here. I can go into the sitting room, if you want.”

“No,” said John, managing to find his voice. “It's fine. I like having you here.”

“Good,” said Sherlock. “I like being here.”

There was a hand on John's hair again, then the typing resumed. John fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

****

 

When they walked into Angelo's the next evening, Sherlock had a firm grip on John's hand. John tried to ignore the curious looks they got from those who knew them, ducking his head to stop a self-satisfied smile spreading across his face.

Greg and Mycroft were already sitting at a table. Sherlock stopped dead when he saw Mycroft, and his grip on John's hand tightened.

“Mycroft,” he growled with narrow eyes, as if meeting an enemy.

“Good evening, Sherlock,” said Mycroft with a calm smile. His eyes flicked to their joined hands. “I see congratulations are in order.”

Sherlock's gaze transferred to Greg. “You brought him here?”

Greg met his glare with a steady look of his own. “I did, yeah. Problem?”

For a moment John though Sherlock was going to break the bones in his hand, then his grip abruptly relaxed. “No, not at all,” said Sherlock, finally letting go of John in order to sit down at the table. “I'm just impressed you managed to get him to leave his little empire.”

John sat down, exchanging a tired look with Greg. Hopefully the whole night wouldn't be filled with sniping. The moment he was seated, Sherlock took possession of his hand again. Greg's eyes flicked down, then up to John's face, and John felt himself start to flush before he could pull himself together and drop his own pointed look at where Greg and Mycroft's knees were pressed together.

“It is customary to explore your partner's sphere of interest when embarking on a new relationship,” said Mycroft. “I am merely attempting to find out what it is that Greg likes so much about this place.” He left the tiniest of pauses before saying 'place' – just enough to imply all the other words he could have chosen instead. “One wonders if you are intending to show John the same courtesy?”

Sherlock gave him an enormous, smug grin. “Oh, I've spent all day exploring John's spheres of interest,” he said.

John groaned.

“All right,” said Greg. “That's enough, you two. Let's try and keep the sibling rivalry to a minimum tonight, shall we?”

Angelo appeared, rubbing his hands together. “Sherlock! John, Greg, how are you all?” His eyes took in John and Sherlock's joined hands, and Greg and Mycroft's knees. “Oh! Like that, is it? I'll get you a candle – it's more romantic.”

He disappeared again.

“What a proficient proprietor,” said Mycroft. He looked at Greg. “Very well, then. I shall buy drinks for everyone. What would you like?”

“Just a pint, thanks,” said Greg.

“Same,” said John. “Angelo knows my usual.”

“I shall be having champagne,” said Mycroft. “Would you care to join me, Sherlock?”

“Just water, thanks,” said Sherlock.

“How very utilitarian of you,” said Mycroft, standing up. “I shall be but a moment.”

Sherlock watched him go with a faint frown, then looked back at Greg. “He's nervous,” he said.

“Yeah, I got that, thanks,” said Greg.

John looked over at Mycroft then back. “He doesn't seem nervous,” he said.

“The more magniloquent he becomes, the more he's trying to hide his nerves,” said Sherlock. “He must really want to impress you,” he added to Greg.

“Me?” said Greg with a laugh. “He's already impressed me.”

“You're definitely moving in with him?” asked John.

“Yeah,” said Greg. “Not for a few weeks – I need to sort out leaving my flat, and we thought it would be best to give us some time to get used to the idea.”

“You thought that,” corrected Mycroft, bringing over a tray with the drinks and a candle on it. “I would be perfectly happy to have you with me immediately.”

“Well, patience is a virtue,” said Greg, but the happy look he sent Mycroft was enough to make John think that it wouldn't take Mycroft very much to persuade him to move his timetable up.

“Sherlock!” said an excited voice behind them, and John turned to see Toby bouncing towards them. “Here you are! We missed you last night.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “I was busy,” he said.

Greg laughed. “You were getting busy,” he said.

“You're not going to stop making jokes about this for a while, are you?” asked John.

“Not a chance,” said Greg. “It's been far too long coming.”

“What's happening?” asked Toby, pulling up a chair. “Is there Gossip?!”

“Sherlock and John finally got together,” said Greg.

Toby stared. “Oh!” he said, and then his eyes took in their hands. “Oooh! Exciting!”

“I'm not sure it's quite that exciting,” said John, because it looked a little as if Toby was going to have a heart attack.

“Are you kidding?!” asked Toby. “It's like Kurt and Blaine getting together!”

“Who?” asked John, but didn't get an answer.

Toby leapt up from the table. “Guys!” he called. “Hey, guys, you'll never guess what!” He disappeared.

“Well, everyone will know in about five minutes,” said Greg, grinning. He raised his pint. “Prepare for the wails of misery from those Sherlock hadn't made it to yet.”

The word spread even quicker than John would have expected. By the time they made it to the Criterion (despite careful hints from Mycroft about heading to the Diogenes instead) it seemed as if half the club was staring at them, especially on the grip Sherlock still had on John's hand. John began to feel extremely self-conscious and tried to tug his hand out of Sherlock's, but Sherlock wouldn't let him go.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's get this over with so that we can get on with dancing.”

He pulled John out to the dance floor and up onto one of the podiums, and then kissed him so thoroughly that John completely forgot about everything else around them, all the people watching, Mycroft and Greg, everything. There was nothing but Sherlock, and he had to cling on to him just to stay standing.

“I think that got the message across,” said Sherlock into his ear after an unknown period of time had passed. “Now, let's dance.”

He pulled John back off the podium and took him right to the centre of the dance floor, and John let himself go to the music, watching Sherlock light up as they moved together. _This_ , he thought as the bass pounded in his ears. _Just this._

**Author's Note:**

> This is the end of this series. Thank you so much for reading.


End file.
